I 


^i&-'<^<i. 


GOOD  MORNING 
R05AM0ND!' 

CONSTANCE  SKINNER 


' (jOGDjV[ORNINq, 

TiQSAMONDr 

ItiluJones'DowTUi^ 


T^CMA-*     FoCArtT. 


'When  one  is  to  have  perhaps  only  one  wonderjiU  day^  decision 
how  one  shall  spend  any  moment  of  it  is  important " 

(See  Page  24) 


(( 


GOOD-MORNING, 
ROSAMOND!'' 


BY 
CONSTANCE  LINDSAY  SKINNER 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

THOMAS  FOGARTY 


Garden  City  New  York 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright^  1917,  hy 
Constance  Lindsay  Skinner 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 
'  *ttaiitslati(fv.  iiit^  ff)r£,^  languages y 
"■  ^  \in€ludi%i  the  ^c'a'^i^avian 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  When  one  is  to  have  perhaps  only  one  wonderful 
day,  decision  how  one  shall  spend  any  moment 

of  it  is  important  " Coloured  frontis, 

(See  page  24) 

FACING  PAGE 

"  Mrs.  Lee  sat  in  her  rocker  knitting.  Her  ball  of 
yarn  was  flipping  about  the  sward  under  the 
paws  of  a  white  kitten  " 42 

"  Regarding  each  other  and  yielding  to  the  charm 
of  the  sunset  and  the  music,  they  did  not  ob- 
serve a  black-whiskered  man  who  was  crawling 
through  the  orchard  " 154 


a 


Rosamond  saw  a  man  who  was  presumably  in  his 
*  middle  thirties ' — a  strong,  well-built  man, 
with  face  and  hands  tanned  by  years  of  turning 
them,  unprotected,  toward  all  weathers  "    .      .      234 


M10595? 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND/'' 

CHAPTER  I 

NEGLIGES  were  unknown  in  Roseborough. 
Even  at  seven  in  the  morning,  which  was 
Rosamond  Mearely's  hour  for  greeting  the  new  day, 
the  ladies  of  Roseborough  did  not  kimono:  they 
dressed. 

Young  Rosamond  Mearely  might  be — as  indeed 
she  was — the  richest  and  fairest  woman  in  Rose- 
borough, and  the  widow  of  a  gentleman  whose  name 
the  hamlet  and  countryside  mentioned  still  with  the 
bated  breath  of  pride;  but  she  would  no  more  have 
dared  to  appear  at  breakfast  before  her  housemaids, 
the  imposing  Frigget  sorority — Amanda,  aged  forty- 
nine  years  "come  Michelmas,"  and  Jemima,  forty- 
seven  and  three  quarter  years — in  what  they  would 
have  pronounced  (and  condemned  as)  a  "wrapper," 
than  she  would  wittingly  have  committed  any  other 
irretrievable /^t^;v  pas. 

The  mother  of  the  Frigget  sorority  had  guided  the 
first  adventures  of  the  late,  distinguished  Hibbert 
Mearely  about  the  by-ways  of  Trenton  Waters,  his 

3 


4         ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

birthplace,  in  the  infantile  push-carts  of  his  period — 
that  is  to  say,  fifty-odd  years  before  this  morning 
when  his  young  widow  slipped  a  decorous  print  gown 
(lavender  with  black  floral  design)  over  her  dainty, 
white  roundness  and  the  whalebone  and  batiste 
article  that  confined  it,  and  descended  to  her  fourteen 
hundred  and  eightieth  solitary  breakfast.  It  was 
four  years  since  Hibbert  Mearely's  departure.  His 
faithful  nurse  was  slowly  preparing  to  follow  him; 
she  lay  bedridden  in  Trenton  Waters.  Her  two 
daughters,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  serve  him, 
still  dominated  his  household. 

Rosamond  saw  them  now,  as  the  stairs  circled  to 
the  door  of  the  large  living  room  where  summer 
breakfasts  were  spread.  They  were  tall,  multi- 
boned  women  with  straight,  thin,  gray  hair — drawn 
sheerely  to  a  polka  dot  at  the  back,  which  one,  or  at 
most  two,  hairpins  controlled — and  clad  in  skimpy, 
dark,  cotton  dresses,  well  starched  and  designed  to 
reveal  every  puritan  angle.  They  stood  at  opposite 
sides  of  a  long,  black  table.  The  table  was  one  of 
Hibbert  Mearely's  antiques  (a  ticket  attached  to  the 
foot  gave  its  date  and  history);  its  "early  Seven- 
teenth" carvings  were  hidden  now  by  a  cloth  of 
gleaming  white  damask  bearing  Mrs.  Mearely's 
breakfast.  Rosamond's  glance,  by  habit,  travelled 
in  a  direct  line  between  her  female  grenadiers  to  the 
wall  where  a  Ufe-size  portrait,  in  oils,  of  the  late 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''         5 

master  depended.  Outside  the  wide-open  doors, 
the  sunHght  filtered  through  the  overlacing  trees  and 
kindled  the  proud  red  of  the  dahlias  to  flame.  A 
little  breeze,  vagrant  and  wilful,  danced  through  the 
garden  and  set  all  the  leaves  to  clapping  their  hands. 
Rosamond  sighed.  She  flitted  through  the  doorway 
and  down  the  huge  room,  sedately,  to  her  place. 

"Good-mornin',  Mrs.  Mearely,  ma'am." 

"Good-mornin',  Mrs.  Mearely,  ma'am." 

"Good-morning,  Amanda.  Good-morning,  Jemi- 
ma." 

These  salutations  never  varied.  Rosamond  spread 
her  old-fashioned  damask  napkin  on  her  lap  slowly 
with  a  sense  of  apprehension.  Amanda  had  her  own 
manner  of  estabHshing  an  "atmosphere."  Out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye  Rosamond  perceived  that  she 
was  more  unbending  than  usual  this  morning. 

"I  was  a 'most  a-comin'  up  to  see  if  you'd  ben 
took  sick — it's  five  after."  Amanda's  tone  was  dry 
and  accusative. 

"Is  it.?  Perhaps  I  may  have  dawdled  a  little 
.  .  .  I  mean,"  hastily,  "I  think  one  of  my  laces 
knotted." 

"Seven  sharp  was  a 'ways  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's 
breakfast  hour" — Jemima's  tone  was  impersonal 
and  final — "as  we'd  oughter  know  that  cooked  and 
served  it  to  him  twenty  year,  not  countin'  the  long 
time  of  his  young  an  middle  manhood  when  he  was 


6         ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

trapsein'  the  world  after  them  curios  an'  antics  of 
his'n." 

"Antiques,  Jemima,"  the  lady  of  the  house  cor- 
rected. 

"That's  wot  I  said,''  stubbornly. 

"Your  porridge  was  dished  at  seven  sharp  an'  was 
perfec'  for  that  hour;  but  five  minutes  makes  a  world 
of  difference  in  the  nature  of  a  hot  bowl  of  porridge." 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  delicious,  Amanda,"  her  mis- 
tress murmured.     Her  tone  was  timid  and  placating. 

"Speakin'  of  laces  knottin',"  Amanda  continued, 
"Mary  Caroline  was  the  only  one  of  us  girls  that  was 
incHned  to  fat,  an'  maw  a 'ways  made  her  let  'em 
out  when  she  took  'em  off,  nights,  so  there'd  be  no 
time  wasted  in  the  mornin'." 

"It  was  my  ^oo^-lace,  Amanda,"  milady  protested. 

"Mebbe  'twas — an'  mebbe  'twasn't.  It's  loos- 
enin'  em  overnight  that  counts — both  boots  an' 
stays.  An'  so  Mary  Caroline  found — leastways  if 
she  didn't  want  maw  to  wallop  her  for  bein'  late — 
sloth  bein'  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  maw  could 
not  abide.  Mary  Caroline  was  a  natural  temptation 
to  a  high-tempered,  energetic  woman  Hke  maw — she 
bein'  inclined  to  fat." 

Mrs.  Mearely  motioned  the  porridge  bowl  away 
with  a  chill  gravity. 

"I'd  like  my  toast  and  eggs  now.  Of  course  I  do 
not  suppose  you  mean  anything  personal,  Amanda, 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''         7 

by  your  repeated  allusions  to  your  deceased  sister's 
physique.  Nevertheless  I  may  say,  without  lower- 
ing my  dignity,  that,  although  I  am  not  thin  and — 
and — er — flat  all  over  like  some  of  Roseborough's 
women,  I  am  not  fat.  I  am  not  even  *  inclined  to  fat ' 
as  it  appears  your — er — walloped  sister  was,  accord- 
ing to  your  description." 

Mrs.  Mearely's  attempt  to  reduce  Amanda  Frigget, 
domestic,  to  a  proper  sense  of  her  relation  toward 
the  mistress  of  Villa  Rose,  failed  miserably.  The 
haughty  eye  of  the  would-be  grande  dame  wavered 
from  that  forbidding  countenance  and  weakly  sought 
refuge  in  the  colour-blend  of  buttered  toast  with  yolk 
of  egg.  Alas,  she  had  given  Amanda  the  sort  of 
opportunity  which  never  passed  unimproved. 

"You're  not  fat  as  compared  with  some,  but  youVe 
got  a  general  curve  to  you,  which  is  on'y  to  be  ex- 
pected in  the  daughter-of-a-farmer's  figure."  Aman- 
da proceeded,  uncompromisingly,  to  make  the 
Frigget  position  on  curves  and  non-curves  even 
plainer.  "Now  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's  sisters,  both 
what  married  small  but  choice  titles,  was  so  lean  an' 
aristocratical  you  could  count  the  ridges  in  their 
backbones — on'y  you  wouldn't  of  persoomed  that 
way  on  born  ladies.  But  look  who  their  father  was — 
an'  Mr.  Mearely's  father,  too!  A  perfessor  an' 
clergy  that  had  his  descent  from  the  middle  ages  of 
Henery  Seven!" 


8         ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"No  wonder  Mr.  Mearely  felt  he  could  afford  to 
be  condescendin',"  Jemima  put  in,  as  she  removed 
the  tea  cosy.  "But  I  don't  s'pose  he'd  ever  have 
set  his  a 'most  royal  foot  onto  ploughed  an'  harrowed 
groun',  if  he  hadn't  of  seen  you  that  day  in  the  gate 
of  your  father's  farm  in  Poplars  Vale.  That's  when 
he  forgot  about  Henery  Seven  an'  went  back  to  the 
soil — a  man  that  was  past  fifty  an'  had  seen  all  the 
museums  of  Europe!" 

"Strange — strange,  indeed!"  Mrs.  Mearely  hissed 
softly,  striking  a  small  silver  knife  into  a  butter  ball 
with  intent  to  wound. 

Amanda  took  up  the  theme. 

"An'  how  did  it  all  come  to  happen.?  By  the 
accident  of  him,  a  absen '-minded  man,  takin'  the 
wrong  turn  at  the  cross-roads  as  he  come  up  from 
fishin'!  The  han'  of  fate  pinted  him  to  Poplars 
Vale  'stead  of  Roseborough.  An'  there  was  you, 
eighteen — an'  allurin'  no  doubt,  but  'umble  an' 
uncultured — a-sittin'  on  your  paw's  farm  gate,  but 
lookin'  higher.  What  a  talk  it  made  in  these  parts! 
When  I  says  to  maw,  I  says,  *Mr.  Mearely's  goin' 
to  marry  Rosamon'  Cort  of  Poplars  Vale,'  she  took 
to  her  bed  for  the  day  with  a  spell.  Such  a  shock  it 
was  to  her  to  think  how  him  as  she'd  used  to  trundle 
had  forgot  his  station." 

"  By  marrying  a  butter-maker  ? "  Rosamond's  voice 
was  sharp  at  the  edges  now. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''         9= 

"We  said  then — maw  an'  Jemima  an'  me  (Mary 
Caroline  havin'  passed  beyon') — we  said,  'We'll 
never  remember  again  in  this  life  that  Mr.  Hibbert 
Mearely's  fiancy's  mother  made  an'  soV  the  first 
roun'  fancy  butter  pats  in  this  distric'.'  That's 
the  way  all  Trenton  Waters  an'  Roseborough  felt 
bounden  towards  the  Mearelys.  That's,  in  special, 
the  way  His  Friggets  felt  bounden  toward  Mr.  Hib- 
bert Mearely." 

"No  doubt  he  is  very  grateful  to  you  both,  and  is 
waiting  eagerly  to  reward  your  devotion" — she 
paused  also  at  the  "cross-roads,"  so  to  speak,  ere 
she  gestured  a  vague  direction  and  concluded — 
"wherever  he  is." 

If  her  inflections  were  strangely  pungent  and  her 
phraseology  speculative,  the  angle  of  vision  sought 
by  her  too  large,  cloud-flecked,  sky-blue  eyes  was 
absolutely  right.  They  gazed  ceilingward.  Aman- 
da folded  her  hands  across  her  apron.  She  also 
looked  upward. 

"No  doubt,"  she  repeated,  solemnly. 

"No  doubt;"  Jemima  echoed  her  sister's  sepul- 
chral accents,  and  folded  her  hands  and  looked  at  the 
same  bit  of  the  gold  cornice.  If  they  had  concen- 
trated on  this  point  long  enough  in  rapt  faith — who 
knows? — they  might  have  materialized  there  the 
shade  of  the  departed  collector  of  antiquities  to 
demand    of   them,    sternly,    which    careless    hand- 


lo       ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

maid  with  intrusive  mop  had  nicked  his  Florentine 
gilding. 

"The  raspberries,  Jemima,  please.  I  shall  always 
wonder  why  it  is  that  .  .  .  (cream,  please) 
.  .  .  the  very  persons  who  wouldn't  for  worlds 
.  .  .  (and  powdered  sugar)  .  .  .  recall  the 
fact  that  Hibbert  Mearely's  widow's  mother  once 
sold  butter  .  .  .  (are  you  sure  this  is  sugar, 
Jemima?  It  looks  suspiciously  like  salt)  .  . 
are  the  very  ones  who  are  always  reminding  me  of 
.     .     .     the  butter,  please''     She  finished,  tartly. 

Jemima  hastened  to  pass  the  hereditary  slur. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't  go  to  say  that  exac'ly." 
Amanda  studied  the  question.  "But  them  what 
thought  so  high  of  Mr.  Mearely  kind  of  wants  to 
help  you  remember  what  he  done  for  you." 

"Ah!  that  is  it,  eh.?" 

"Yes.  An '  you  bein'  a  widow  an '  havin '  to  put  all 
his  blue  blood  in  the  tomb — ^when  you  hadn't  en- 
joyed it  but  a  year  an'  four  month — we  feel  like  it 
comforts  you  to  remin'  you  that,  even  if  you  come 
off  a  farm  in  Poplars  Vale,  your  diseased  husban' 
didn't.     No,  Sir  !     He  come  off  of  Henery  Seven!" 

An  odd  little  squeak  pierced  through  Rosamond's 
damask  napkin.     It  terminated  hastily  in  a  cough. 

"May  I  ask,  ma'am,  when  Mrs.  Witherby  stopped 
in  here  yesterday  mornin'  did  you  happen  to  be 
wearin'  them  white  cuffs  an '  collar  with  your  lavender 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        ii 

'stead  of  the  black  watered  ribbon  ones  as  you've 
worn  for  nigh  a  year?" 

"Yes.  Yes,  Amanda,  I  beHeve  I  did  have  these 
on  yesterday — for  the  first  time  in  the  daytime. 
You  know  I've  worn  all  white  with  flowers — in  the 
evening." 

"It's  doin'  it  in  broad  daylight  that  causes  remark. 
Oh,  I'm  not  forgettin'  my  place  an'  criticizin'.  It's 
all  correc'  enough.  You  done  your  eighteen  months 
crape  an '  one  year  plain,  then  your  six  month  black 'n 
white.  Then  come  your  year  of  lavender  with  black 
ribbons,  an'  now  it's  time  for  white  or  even  light 
colours,  if  you're  desirous,  an'  none  should  objec'. 
But  Mrs.  Witherby's  tongue  is  Hke  a  dog's  on  a 
huntin'  mornin';  it's  that  easy  set  to  waggin'  an' 
anticipatin'.  Jemima,  you  it  was  overheard  her 
remarks.     Be  so  kin'  an'  repeat." 

Nothing  loath,  Jemima  obliged. 

"Mrs.  Witherby  says,  says  she,  *well,  you  mark 
me,'  says  she,  *Mrs.  Mearely  will  not  remain  long  a 
widder.  It'll  be  Judge  GifFen  or  Wilton  Howard 
afore  Christmas.'" 

"Oh!  the  gossip!"  Mrs.  Mearely  snapped  indig- 
nantly.    Amanda  nodded  sagely. 

"It  was  them  white  muslin  trimmin's  what  done 
it,"  she  averred.  "She  says  it  afore  her  niece. 
Miss  Mabel,  who  all  Roseborough  knows  is  jus' 
a-pinin'  an'  a-languishin '  for  Mr.  Howard;  and  Miss 


12       ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mabel  she  goes  white  as  your  napkin — ^which  ain't 
so  white,  but  considerable  eggy  now  you've  had  your 
soP  boileds.  I  could  a'ways  tell  your  napkin  from 
Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's  wherever  Fd  pick  'em  up — 
be  it  in  church  or  tavern — for  Mr.  Mearely  he  could 
comfort  his  appetite  without  a  smear.  But,  of 
course,  he  was  born  to  refinements.  Well,  it's  too 
bad,  ma'am,  but  gossip  is  what  you  mus'  expec' 
from  now  henceforth." 

"Yes,"  Jemima  went  on  to  illustrate,  "all  Rose- 
borough  is  a-waitin'  breathless  to  see  what  you'll  do 
nex' — you  bein'  the  widder  of  a  aristocrat  but  the 
chil'  of  a  farm." 

"Standing,  so  to  speak,  with  one  foot  on  the  throne 
and  the  other  on  the  churn?"  milady  murmured 
between  bites  at  a  large  berry. 

"Wilton  Howard's  too  young — he's  on'y  aroun' 
thirty-five,"  Jemima  continued.  "Though  him  bein' 
a  relation  of  the  departed  has  a  sort  of  sentimentality 
to  it.  It'll  be  the  Judge,  if  ever  she  do  take  unto  her 
another  spouse.  Him  an'  Mr.  Mearely  was  intimate 
bach 'lor  frien's;  an'  the  Judge  is  a  highborn  man, 
specially  on  his  mother's  side — 'Doubledott'  bein' 
one  of  our  proudest  names.  An'  he's  jus'  fifty-three 
years  old,  what  is  the  exac'  age  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely 
was  when  he  lifted  you  from  the  farm  gate  to  the 
altar.  It'd  be  a'most  like  gettin'  married  to  Mr. 
Mearely  all  over  again — specially  as  the  Judge  not 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        13 

havin'  any  property,  you'd  be  livin'  on  here  with 
him." 

This  graphic  prophecy  of  a  second  state  of  connu- 
bial bUss  affected  Mrs.  Mearely  strongly.  She  burst 
into  explosive  sobs. 

"Yes!  yes — yes!  It  would  be  just  the — the 
same  as  marrying  Hib — Hib — Hibbert  Mearely  all 
o — o — over  again!  And  I'm  only — only — not  quite 
— twenty-four.     Oh — h — h ! " 

She  swept  the  dishes  back  ruthlessly,  overtoppling 
the  hot  water  pitcher — Amanda  saved  the  cream  just 
in  time — and  hid  her  face  on  her  black-flowered, 
lavender  sleeves  with  their  white  cuffs  (which,  being 
amorously  interpreted  by  the  Roseborough  gossip, 
had  provoked  this  sorrow)  and  sobbed  as  stormily 
and  shamelessly  as  if  she  were  still  little  Rosamond 
Cort  pouring  out  the  briny  aftermath  of  punishment 
in  the  hayrick  behind  the  dairy. 

"There,  there,  ma'am,"  Amanda  said,  gently. 
"There,  there.  Who  could  know  better  how  you 
feel  than  His  Friggets,  what  has  been  to  Hibbert 
Mearely  fifty  year — mother  an'  daughters — all  that 
hired  help  can  be  in  the  Hfe  of  any  highborn  man  ? " 

"Who  could  know  better 'n  us?"  Jemima  obbliga- 
toed. 

"It's  like  a  sacrilege  to  you  to  think  of  putting  any 
man,  even  Judge  Giffen,  acrost  the  table  from  you 
under  that  portrait.     To  take  a  secon '  spouse  seems 


14       ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

to  some  natures  a'most  indelicate.  Ma'am,  while 
His  Friggets  is  conductin'  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's  late 
home  on  earth,  gossip  can  say  no  word  agin  you,  for 
ril  promise  you  as  no  young  sheeps-eyed,  gallantin' 
male  critter  will  ever  get  inside  the  walls  of  Villa 
Rose  to  blaspheme  your  sacred  mem'ries.  It'll  be 
the  Judge  or  none — an'  I  ain't  decided  yet  even  as 
the  Judge     .     .     ."     She  stopped  short. 

From  the  little  anteroom  which  connected  the  liv- 
ing room  with  the  formal  dining  room  came  a  tinkling. 

"A  telephone  in  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's  antic  an' 
aristocratical  home  is  what  I'll  never  get  accustomed 
to."  Amanda  drew  her  lips  down  in  displeasure. 
''He'd  never  have  permitted  it." 

"Answer  it,  if  you  please,  Amanda."  Mrs. 
Mearely  lifted  her  head  with  an  air  that  became  her 
well,  despite  her  tears. 

"Answer  it,  Jemima,"  the  elder  sister  commanded, 
noting,  with  a  glitter  of  satisfaction,  that  her  alleged 
"mistress's"  eyes  flashed  angrily.  By  such  subt- 
leties did  Amanda  remind  milady,  when  necessary, 
that,  while  "His  Friggets"  would  do  whatever  was  to 
be  expected  of  servants  in  Villa  Rose,  neither  would 
take  personal  orders — above  all,  if  given  as  such — 
from  the  farmer's  daughter  of  Poplars  Vale. 

"I  don't  mind  obligin'  you,  Amanda,"  Jemima 
responded,  with  a  certain  pointedness. 

"There  won't  be  anyone  there  to  answer,  if  you 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       15 

don't  hurry,"  Rosamond  said  sharply.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  Hberating  influence  of  her  white  cufFs  and 
fichu;  perhaps  it  was  because  the  early  morning  sun 
and  breeze  on  a  midsummer  day  have  a  rapture  of 
their  own  which  is  communicable  and  urges  gay  de- 
fiance of  all  convention;  but,  whatever  the  cause, 
Rosamond  Mearely  was  aware  that,  although  she 
had  been  irked  aforetime,  never  had  she  felt  the 
oppressiveness  of  the  Frigget  sorority  as  she  felt  it  at 
that  moment.     Inwardly  she  was  thinking: 

"I  couldn't  discharge  them.  They  wouldn't  go. 
Or,  if  they  did  leave,  they'd  make  it  impossible  for 
me  to  live  in  Roseborough.  But  if  a  wicked  tramp 
were  to  come  by  and  I  paid  him  a  lot  of  money,  and 
he  murdered  them  for  me     .     .     .      ?" 

Mrs.  Mearely 's  assassination  reverie  was  cut  short 
by  woeful  wails  from  Jemima  at  the  telephone. 

"Oh!     Mercy!    Amanda!  oh     .     .     .     !" 

It  was  only  on  extreme  occasions  that  Amanda 
indulged  in  profanity.     She  did  so  now. 

"Jemima!  What  in  all  sassafras  is  the  matter 
with  you?"  she  demanded  sternly  as  her  sister 
reeled  into  the  room. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Maw's  had  another  stroke!  We're 
to  go  to  her  bedside  immejit." 

"Another  stroke!"  Amanda  echoed  in  a  ghostly 
voice.     "  It's  the  end.     Poor  Maw !    Another  stroke  !  " 

"Oh,  poor  Mrs.  Frigget.     Oh,  poor  Amanda!     Oh, 


i6       ''GOOD^MORNING,  ROSAMOND  r' 

poor  Jemima!  But  it  isn't  the  end.  She'll  have  lots 
more."  Rosamond,  all  tender  consternation,  en- 
deavoured to  console.  "It's  only  her  second,  and 
they  always  have  three^  at  least.  Dr.  Wells  says  he 
knew  a  patient  who  had  seven." 

Failing  to  stop  their  cries  by  hopeful  words,  she 
took  practical  steps.  She  ran  to  the  open  door  and 
called : 

"Blake!  Blake!  Oh,  there  you  are.  Blake,  you 
must  harness  the  mare  at  once  and  drive  Amanda 
and  Jemima  to  Trenton.     Their  mother  is  ill!" 

"Good-mornin',  Mrs.  Mearely,  mum.  Ill,  is  she.^ 
In  course,  she's  ill,"  came  in  a  slow,  rumbling  voice 
from  some  aged  masculine  out  of  sight.  "She's  been 
bedridden  nigh  three  year." 

"Hush,  Blake.  You  must  not  be  so  unfeeling. 
She's  just  had  a  stroke." 

"That's  them  sleezy,  new-style,  board-roof  cot- 
tages. They'd  oughter  kep'  a  green  umbreller  over 
'er  bed." 

"It  isn't  a  sun-stroke,  Blake!  It's  a — another 
kind.  And  you  must  harness,  at  once,  and  take  her 
daughters  to  her." 

"Oh,  yep.  If  the  wuss  is  a-goin'  to  'appen,  them 
two  Friggets  has  got  to  be  thar  to  see  it.  Good- 
mornin',  Amanda  and  Jemima." 

Blake,  gray-haired,  sixty,  and  stooped  but  hale  and 
ruddyfaced,  Umped  to  the  threshold. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       17 

"So  yer  maw's  nearin'  'er  end,  is  she?  That's 
very  sad — I  know  to  a  t  'ow  you  feel — if  so  be  ye're 
feelin'  had — coz  my  rheumatiz  is  twistin'  me  like  a 
peavine  this  mornin'.  I'm  four  square  yards  of 
twinges.  'Owever,  I'll  'arness  the  mare  an'  she'll 
get  us  over  to  Trenton  lickety-split — judgin'  from 
the  way  she's  been  actin'  sence  daybreak.  That  is, 
if  she  don't  fling  us  all  over  the  bridge." 

"Yes,  yes!  That'll  do,  Blake,"  Mrs.  Mearely 
interrupted  impatiently.  "People  could  be  dying 
while  you're  talking,  you  know.  Hurry,  now! 
hurry!" 

"Oh,  whatever'll  you  do  without  us?  Somethin's 
mortally  sure  to  happen!"  Amanda  moaned,  torn 
between  two  duties.  "Somethin'  a'ways  goes  wrong 
in  Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely's  home  when  His  Friggets 
leaves  it.  Oh,  be  sure  and  sen'  right  away  for  Bella 
Greenup  to  tidy  up  an'  get  your  dinner." 

"Nonsense,  Amanda.  What  should  happen? 
Nothing  has  ever  happened  in  Roseborough  yet. 
Nothing  ever  will  happen  in  Roseborough.  Leave 
everything  and  go  at  once  to  your  mother." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  Jemima  said  between  sobs. 
"It's  kin'  of  you.  If  you'll  telephone  to  Dollop's 
Drugs,  he'll  sen'  to  Bella  Greenup  for  you — him  bein' 
sweet  on  her  an'  more'n  willin'  to  take  her  messages." 

At  the  end  of  a  half  hour  Rosamond  saw  them 
driven  oflF  down  the  winding  hill  road,  the  gray  mare 


i8 


'GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND  I " 


snorting  and  kicking  up  her  heels  as  if  she  had  not, 
some  time  since,  reached  years  of  discretion. 

**  Florence  is  not  acting  in  the  least  like  a  Rose- 
borough  mare,"  she  commented  aloud.  "She  is 
positively  unladylike  this  morning.  Oh,  dear,  I 
do  hope  their  mother  will  get  better — the  poor 
things!"  Then,  in  spite  of  her  genuine  sympathy,  a 
giggle  escaped  her.  "If  it  weren't  such  a  sad  occa- 
sion it  would  be  rather  fun  to  see  Florence  kick  a 
fraction  too  high  and  roll  *His  Friggets'  down  the 
hill.  They  are  so  unintentionally  amusing  that 
there  are  times  when  I  could  almost  like  them  if 
only  they  wouldn't  call  themselves  that  !" 


CHAPTER  II 

UNLESS  she  meant  to  clear  away  her  breakfast 
dishes  herself,  her  first  duty  was  to  send  for 
Bella  Greenup.  She  turned  her  back  on  both  tele- 
phone and  dishes,  however,  and  ran  up  the  stairs  and 
into  her  room.  It  might  be  supposed  that  she  in- 
tended to  begin  the  day's  work  by  making  her  bed; 
but  she  spared  not  a  glance  for  its  crumpled  state. 
Some  secret  purpose,  brought  to  definite  shape  as 
the  carriage  had  disappeared,  possessed  and  thrilled 
her. 

There  was  a  window  seat  formed  by  a  huge,  carved 
rosewood  chest.  Rosamond  dropped  on  her  knees 
before  it  and  began  to  search  through  the  layers  of 
coloured  frou-frous  which  were  neatly  sandwiched 
between  pieces  of  smooth,  white  linen.  Pink  muslin 
bags  containing  dried  rose  leaves,  and  bunches  of 
dried  lavender  blossoms  woven  together  in  loose 
checker  pattern  by  lavender  and  white  baby  ribbons, 
were  tossed  among  the  rainbow  flounces  of  a  profuse 
wardrobe. 

She  rose  presently  with  billows  of  perfumed 
satins  and  lace  flowing  over  her  arm.  Her  cheeks 
were  rosy  not  only  from  her  exertions  but  from  the 

19 


20        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

excitement  that  stirred  her  small  round  bosom,  and 
also  kindled  her  eyes  till  they  glowed  like  the  blue 
sparks  of  a  driftwood  fire.  She  skimmed  across  the 
dull-polished  dark  oak  floor  to  the  mirror.  This 
latter  was  the  one  bright  article  among  the  sombre 
furnishings  of  the  room.  It  was  a  huge  thing  with 
an  ornate  gold-enamelled  frame  that  finished  in  a 
top  of  turrets,  flower-twined  trellises,  and  one- 
stepping  cupids.  It  reflected  the  room  for  Rosa^ 
mond  in  fan-shape,  with  herself  the  Watteau  figure 
in  the  fan's  centre. 

As  she  unfastened  the  top  button  of  the  black- 
sprayed  lavender  gown  she  began  to  hum  a  little  song. 
They  were  tiny  cut  jet  buttons,  and  no  doubt  sug- 
gested to  her  that  time  could  be  saved  and  the 
adventure  hastened  by  a  good  pull.  Two  sharp 
tugs  ripped  them  all  out  of  the  button-holes;  but 
two  of  the  jet  balls  had  shot,  like  stray  bullets,  into 
the  unknown,  ere  the  hated  garment  reached  the 
middle  of  the  room,  having  been  propelled  thereto 
by  the  farmer's  daughter's  toe. 

The  gown  she  selected  in  its  place  was  of  soft  satin, 
thin  and  sheer  as  silk,  and  of  a  lilac  hue.  The  skirt, 
made  in  two  panniers  and  short  round  train,  draped 
over  an  Irish  lace  petticoat.  The  round-necked 
bodice  and  short,  close-fitting  sleeves  were  of  the  lace. 
From  the  front  of  the  girdle,  silk  folds  went  over  the 
shoulders  and  hung  in  sash-ends  at  the  back.     It 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        21 

was  a  frock  of  costly  simplicity,  witnessing  that  the 
departed  collector  of  curios,  antiques,  and  ohjets 
d'art  had  been  no  niggard  in  the  matter  of  supplying 
appropriate  cases  for  his  purchases. 

The  other  gown,  shimmering  and  smelling  of  pink 
roses  and  traiUng  with  silver  gossamer,  she  shook  out 
and  hung  upon  the  high  back  of  some  medieval 
Louis'  chair  and  draped  it  with  linen  to  protect  it 
from  dust.  Presently  she  returned  to  the  mirror  to 
survey,  at  her  dehghtful  leisure,  a  sight  that  would 
have  caused  His  Friggets  to  swoon  with  apprehension, 
so  boldly  did  it  register  new  claims  on  life  and  on 
youth's  inalienable  right  to  inspire  love. 

The  figure  reflected  was  not  diminutive.  Without 
being  tall,  there  was  height  enough,  one  would  say, 
to  insure  the  eyes  a  good  view  of  golden  horizons  and 
near  heavens,  and  the  arms  an  easy  reach  to  the 
honeysuckle  clusters  or  the  ripe  purple  plum  hanging 
low  by  its  own  weight.  The  lines  were  long  and  not 
fragile  but  well  knit  at  knee  and  thigh,  at  shoulders 
and  supple  waist;  the  curves  were  not  less  sturdy 
than  graceful  and  sinuous,  like  the  outlines  of  a  young, 
white,  birch  tree,  where  poetic  beauty  harmonizes 
with  limber,  enduring  strength.  The  tenuousness  of 
high  breeding,  which  His  Friggets  so  admired,  was 
wholly  absent  from  Rosamond's  body.  The  well- 
made  feet  looked  equal  to  miles  of  meadow  running; 
and  the  finely  rounded,  firm,  white  arms  would  not 


22        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

tire  under  the  pressure  of  market  baskets.  Yet  there 
was  a  daintiness  about  her — in  her  postures  and  her 
movements,  in  the  set  of  her  throat  and  of  the  chin 
raised  to  thrust  her  eager  face  a  httle  forward — but 
It  was  the  daintiness  of  the  field,  not  of  the  hothouse. 

Both  La  France  and  the  wild  rose  are  roses;  both 
permeate  their  worlds  with  fragrance  and  are  some- 
thing alike  in  colour,  but  no  one  would  compare  or 
contrast  them  for  purposes  of  criticism.  One,  the 
product  of  selection,  is  the  aristocrat  of  horticulture. 
The  other  is  the  queen  of  rusticdom,  as  unspoiled  as 
she  is  undisputed  in  her  sway,  the  passing  centuries 
of  garden  fancies  and  fads  having  influenced  her  not 
at  all.  She  is  not  the  less  lovely  because  she  is 
sturdy  and  able  to  bear  wind  and  weather. 

Rosamond  Mearely,  nee  Cort — like  the  wild  rose 
— proclaimed  that  the  cottager's  environs,  and  not 
lordly  estates,  were  her  native  ground.  She  was  a 
willing  little  daughter  of  the  earth,  with  the  earth's 
promise  in  her;  and  her  halesome,  country-bred 
beauty  challenged  with  a  frank  admission  that  it 
would  have  shone  as  radiantly  in  a  sun-bonnet, 
patched  gingham  apron,  and  bare  feet.  This, 
despite  its  present  wrappings  of  Lyons  silk  and 
Limerick  lace  and  its  background  of  some  ancient, 
royal  reprobate's  furniture;  and  also  despite  the  fact 
that  the  mirror  which  imaged  the  eager,  wistful  face 
under  its  bright  hair  had  once  reflected   (so   'twas 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        23 

said)  the  coronets  and  the  hauteur  of  the  princesses  of 
the  House  of  Orleans. 

A  joyous  flush  tinted  her  satiny  skin  which  was 
innocent  of  even  the  knowledge  of  powder.  Thoughts 
of  freedom  came  to  her  and  made  her  breath  stir 
quickly.  They  promised  her  things  vague  and 
splendid  and  she  felt  a  flutter  about  her  heart  like 
the  wings  of  birds  waking  for  the  morning  flight. 
She  was  beautiful,  she  was  rich,  she  was  young;  and 
for  one  whole  day,  at  least,  she  was  her  own  mistress. 
A  laugh  rippled  through  the  sombre  old  curio  shop 
of  a  bedroom.  She  swept  herself  a  curtsy  and  called 
gleefully  to  the  contented-looking  apparition  in  the 
mirror: 

"Good-morning,  Rosamond!" 

She  fairly  danced  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  THE  living  room  she  paused  for  a  conference 
with  herself. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  said,  aloud.  "Amanda  said  I 
must  send  for  Mrs.  Greenup  at  once,  to  manage  the 
house  till  they  come  back.  So  I  shan't  do  it!  I'll 
be  my  own  Cinderella — sometimes  in  the  kitchen 
and  sometimes  my  ladyship.  This  may  be  the  only 
day  ril  ever  have  that  is  all  mine.  So  it  must  be — 
it's  just  got  to  he-^-zvonderful  I  and  nobody  shall  spy 
on  it.     What  shall  I  do  first  ?" 

She  dropped  into  an  enormous  padded  chair  and 
stared  thoughtfully  at  the  farthest  wall.  When  one 
is  to  have  perhaps  only  one  Wonderful  Day,  decision 
regarding  how  to  spend  every  moment  of  it  is  im- 
portant. 

Even  immersed — as  she  was — in  delicious  hopes, 
she  could  not  remain  long  unaware  that  her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  countenance  of  the  man  who  had 
brought  her  to  Villa  Rose.  The  childish  glow,  the 
eager  make-believe,  which  had  transformed  her  into 
a  girl  of  eighteen  again,  faded  from  her  eyes.  In  their 
place  came  a  wistful  gravity,  the  look  of  one  who  has 
probed  and  queried  and  accepted  certain  harsh  facts, 

24 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r        25 

yet  refused  to  let  them  wholly  dispel  the  fancy  and 
optimism  which  alone  can  make  a  life  of  facts  livable. 
She  accosted  the  portrait. 

"You  were  very  good  to  me,  in  your  way,  Hibbert 
Mearely;  but  you  never  allowed  me  to  forget  how 
greatly  you  had  honoured  me.  It  pleased  you  when 
I  called  you  *sir.'  You  didn't  marry  me  for  love  of 
me — you  took  me  as  if  I  were  a — a — bunch  of  wild 
flowers,  to  give  just  the  right  contrasting  touch  of 
rustic  simplicity  to  your  fine  house.  No,  not  home. 
It  never  was  a  home — only  a  museum." 

She  looked  about  the  large  room.  It  was  orna- 
mented with  scores  of  pieces  of  bric-a-brac,  with  jars, 
images,  plates,  trays,  boxes,  gathered  from  all  parts 
of  the  globe.  They  were  artistically  arranged, 
making  pleasant  spots  of  colour,  and  might  have 
looked  as  if  they  belonged  there  and  together — but 
for  the  tags.  Every  article,  no  matter  what  its 
size — even  the  thimble  which,  it  is  safe  to  say,  Mary 
Stuart  never  did  wear — had  a  ticket  attached  to  it. 
Mr.  Mearely  had  spent  most  of  his  time,  when  at 
Villa  Rose,  in  writing  on  these  tickets,  in  his  small, 
pointed  calligraphy,  the  fictions  of  dealers  most 
pleasing  to  his  egotistical  and  highly  artificial  mind. 

**I  have  been  only  another  curio  with  a  ticket  on — " 
Rosamond  said,  accusingly — "the  rustic  trifle  to 
off'set  the  art  of  all  ages.  You  even  told  me  that 
was  why  you  married  me  and  thought  I  should  feel 


26        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

complimented.  What  higher  compliment  could  a 
woman  desire  than  to  be  regarded  by  her  husband 
purely  as  an  art  object?  And  I  agreed — at  first.  I 
thought  that  was  finer  than  just  love — the  love  of 
farm  lads  and  lasses.  But,  oh  sir,  the  farm  lads  and 
lasses  know  something  more  precious  than  any 
treasure  that  has  ever  come  into  Villa  Rose.  Every- 
body in  Roseborough  said  that  the  butter-maker's 
daughter  married  you  from  ambition,  but  it  wasn't 
only  ambition.     It  was  glamour!" 

The  wistful,  far-away  look  came  into  her  eyes 
again,  despite  the  little  smile  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth — a  smile  as  if  she  mocked  herself  for  a  past 
foible,  the  while  her  eyes  denied  that  it  was  past. 

"Yes,  it  was  glamour.  I  had  known  nothing  but 
humdrum  farm  poverty — but  I  believed  fairy  tales. 
I  thought  it  would  be  good  to  be  the  wife  of  the  dis- 
tinguished Hibbert  Mearely — to  live  in  Villa  Rose 
among  the  antiques — among  Cleopatra's  kiitting 
needles  and  Madame  Pompadour's  stuffed  lizards, 
with  a  knob  of  Charles  I's  unwise,  not  to  say  wooden, 
head  for  the  handle  of  my  shoe-horn!" 

A  short  sharp  laugh  came  from  her,  unmellowed 
by  the  spirit  which  had  bubbled  in  her  since  His 
Friggets'  departure.  It  suggested  that,  unless  she 
laughed,  she  might  cry. 

"There  wasn't  a  single  woman  in  the  district  who 
wouldn't  have  jumped  at  the  chance  of  marrying 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        27 

Hibbert  Mearely.  So  I — yes,  sir — I  jumped!  And 
you  never  knew  that  I  wasn't  happy.  You  never 
knew  because  you  were  not  interested  to  inquire. 
You  of  the  portrait,  there — do  you  accuse  me  of 
ingratitude?  Are  you  saying  that  you  richly  dow- 
ered a  beggar  maid  who  gave  you  nothing  but  the 
beggar  maid  in  return.?  Let  us  discuss  that.  You 
made  me  beheve  it,  and  I  did  beheve  it,  until  lately. 
But  it  isn't  true.  I  spoiled  nothing  that  you  gave 
me;  but  you! — I  gave  you  my  dreams,  all  the  fairy 
tales  I'd  imagined,  all  my  ideals  and  faith  and  all 
that  I  knew  of  reverence.  But  these  things  weren't 
art  objects,  so  you  despised  them.  Well,  I  suppose 
you'd  say  I  gave  you  no  gifts  at  all,  because  I  gave 
you  what  you  had  no  taste  for!  Enough  said  for 
my  gifts.  What  do  I  owe  you.f*  Let  us  talk  of  your 
gifts — without  glamour — heart  to  heart." 

Her  hands  smoothed  down  the  crease  in  the  hem 
of  the  satin  pannier,  and  she  smiled. 

*'You  dressed  me  very  beautifully  and  extrava- 
gantly; but  it  was  only  to  delight  your  eyes — not  to 
make  me  seem  more  lovable  to  you.  Love  was  too 
common — almost  too  vulgar — a  sentiment  to  find 
lodgment  in  the  Mearely  breast.  I  didn't  mind 
your  being  fifty-three,  sir.  That  was  like  being 
wooed  by  a  prince  with  powdered  hair — say,  the 
Fourth  George,  'the  first  gentleman  in  Europe.'" 

She  nodded  emphatically  over  this. 


28        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

"Yes,  sir;  indeed  his  nickname  suited  you,  too,  as 
well  as  his  nature;  for  you  both  had  wonderful  man- 
ners but  no  hearts  at  all.  What  other  gifts  ?  Many. 
I  remember,  sir,  and  gratefully,  that  you  taught  me 
all  I  know  of  fine  airs — how  to  walk,  as  if  I'd  never 
paddled  on  flat  bare  soles  through  the  creeks  and 
meadows;  how  to  talk  in  drawing-room  accents 
without  the  ill-bred  emphasis  of  excitement.  *  Don't 
rattle  the  milk  pails,  my  love,'  is  what  you  used  to 
say,  when  my  zest  for  Hfe  keyed  my  tones  above 
the  Mearely  pitch  and  tempo.  How  you  enjoyed 
seeing  people  writhe  under  your  ridicule!  It  put 
you  into  a  pleasant  mood  again,  presently.  You 
taught  me  what  music  to  admire,  and  what  to  con- 
sider with  pursed  lips  and  lifted  eyebrows;  what 
books,  modern  and  classic,  should  lie  on  a  cultured 
woman's  table.  But  I  remember,  too,  that  you 
taught  me  these  things  by  means  of  sarcasm  that  cut 
to  the  bone;  and  my  tears  you  called  *  squeezing  out 
the  buttermilk.'  You  had  a  sort  of  placid  cruelty, 
sir,  that  always  made  the  butter-maker's  daughter 
cringe.  And  only  a  few  days  before  you  died  you  told 
me  you  feared  I  was  *  irredeemably  bourgeoise' — 
because  I  had  *so  much  ernotion.'     And  the  last  gift.?" 

A  tremor  of  rebelHon  went  through  her,  and  her 
eyes  flashed. 

"Villa  Rose,  and  your  small,  safe  fortune!  Villa 
Rose  and  the  Mearely  money  willed  to  me  in  terms 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'*        29 

that  make  me  a  prisoner  all  my  life!  So  I  think, 
on  the  whole,  IVe  earned  my  right  to  this  day.  I 
have  paid  your  memory  the  last  jot  of  respect  de- 
manded by  Roseborough.  For  four  years  I  have 
worn  hideous  blackish  clothes  which  would  have 
caused  you  to  swoon  with  horror  had  the  angels 
allowed  you  to  lean  out  of  heaven  to  observe  me. 
Now,  I  am  going  to  be  young  and  dress  like  a  bird  of 
paradise!     And — and     .     .     ." 

In  a  trice  she  threw  off  the  mood  that  had  held  her 
there.  The  grave  analyst  disappeared.  It  was  a 
young  creature  thrilHng  with  the  joy  of  Hfe  who 
leaped  up  and  threw  her  arms  high  above  her  head 
and  laughed. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  'irredeemably  bourgeoise' 
bird  of  paradise  is  going  to  do  now.?*  She  is  going 
out  into  the  hedges  and  the  river  grass  and  along 
the  highways;  and  she  is  going  to  twirl  her  -finery 
about,  and  shake  her  hair  out  in  the  sun,  and  call — 
and  call — till  her  true  mate  comes  to  her!  And  he'll 
jump  down  off  his  horse — or  the  wind,  or  a  heron*s 
back — and  he'll  catch  me  up  in  his  arms,  because  he, 
also,  is  irredeemably  bourgeois!  And  he'll  say 
.  .  .  he'll  say — *  Good-morning,  Rosamond!' 
*  Good-morning,  Rosamond!'" 

The  sound  of  her  name  this  morning  gave  her 
exquisite  delight,  as  if  it  introduced  her  to  a  new 
being;  as  if,  indeed,  she  had   discovered  that  this 


30        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

new  being,  herself,  contained  in  profusion  all  the 
elements  of  the  romance  she  coveted. 

She  sing-songed  her  matutinal  salutation  in  the 
theme  of  the  little  minuet  she  had  hummed,  from 
time  to  time,  since  her  pleasant  interview  with  the 
Orleans  mirror,  and  danced  herself  out  with  it  to  the 
garden. 

The  portrait  of  the  late  possessor  of  this  rebellious 
bit  of  country  bric-a-brac  was  an  excellent  essay  in 
flesh  painting  of  the  realistic  school.  It  had  no 
psychic  qualities.  Therefore  it  did  not  change  its 
tints  or  take  on  shadows  when  Mrs.  Hibbert  Mearely, 
renouncing  the  life  of  an  art-object,  wafted  out  on 
rustic  love-adventure  bent.  The  morning  sun,  so 
kind  to  the  fresh  countenance  of  the  farmer's  daugh- 
ter, dealt  very  sincerely  with  the  gentleman  in  the 
picture.  Its  arrow  rays,  shot  across  the  wall,  lent 
neither  warmth  nor  softness — only  pointedness — 
to  the  long,  thin  head,  and  the  nose,  chin,  and  lips 
that  were  all  long  and  thin  and  curved.  Nor  did 
the  sunshine  kindle  the  prominent,  cold,  pale  eyes 
which  looked  out  with  condescension  upon  a  world 
of  humanity  that  mattered  little,  collectively  or 
individually,  to  the  self-contained  self-sufiiciency  of 
Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely,  aristocrat  and  amateur  col- 
lector of  antiques. 

One  long,  thin  hand  held  a  small  gold-painted  box 
from  which  James  II  was  supposed  to  have  pecked 


.     ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        31 

his  after-dinner  comfits.  With  a  fine  impartiality, 
the  other  hand  rested  on  the  head  of  a  cane  of  EngHsh 
oak  and  silver,  said  to  have  been  given  to  William 
of  Orange  by  Mary,  his  spouse.  Indeed,  she  may 
have  given  it  to  him  for,  as  all  history  knows,  the 
intense  but  plain-faced  lady  put  her  Stuart  pride 
in  her  pocket  and  wooed  her  dour  Dutch  Bill,  assid- 
uously and  submissively  from  A  to  Z,  before  she 
finally  convinced  him — to  his  belated  joy — that 
they  were  two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought,  two 
hearts  that  beat  as  one. 

It  may  not  be  amiss  to  mention  here  (in  whispers) 
that  the  distinguished  dilettante — whose  taste  and 
knowledge  of  arts  past  and  present  had  been  that 
of  an  amateur  and  a  gentleman  without  vulgar  taint 
of  professionalism — had  once  (only  once  and  never 
again)  sought  the  opinion  of  an  expert  on  his  collec- 
tion. This  "brutal  person,"  as  Mr.  Mearely  had 
characterized  him  on  the  only  occasion  thereafter, 
when  he  permitted  his  name  to  be  mentioned  in  his 
presence,  found  the  Orleans  mirror  and  the  Louis 
chair  to  be  of  the  periods  claimed,  but  doubted  that 
princesses  had  ever  looked  in  the  one  or  kings  sat  in 
the  other.  He  approved  the  jade  Buddha  and 
certain  bronzes,  potteries,  and  two  pictures;  but  as 
to  the  rest,  he  had  said,  amid  detestable  chuckles: 

"Well,  sir,  my  advice  to  you  is,  don't  ever  charge 
the  public  admission  to  your  private  bazaar — Villa 


32        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

Bizarre,  eh? — for  the  law  would  be  down  on  you 
for  obtaining  money  under  false  pretences.  And  I 
can  promise  you  that  all  your  'royal'  pepper  pots 
and  powder  puffs  and  poodles  and  petits  pots — if  they 
sold  for  what  they're  worth — ^wouldn't  bring  in  enough 
to  pay  your  fines." 

"I  have  not  a  poodle  in  my  collection,"  Mr.  Hib- 
bert  Mearely  retorted  with  icy  dignity,  and  showed 
the  "brutal  person"  the  door. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  little 
Rosamond  Cort,  equipped  by  Nature  from  the  be- 
ginning to  be  a  connoisseur  in  happiness,  should 
have  found  out  that  the  crown  of  wifehood  bestowed 
on  her  by  Hibbert  Mearely  was  something  less  than 
royal,  and  that  the  joys  which  had  glistered  to  her 
through  the  window  panes  of  Villa  Rose  were  golden 
only  on  the  surface. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DOWN  the  hill  and  down  the  valley,  where  the 
crossroads  pointed  east  to  Poplars  Vale  and  west 
to  Roseborough,  and  the  low,  gray  stone  bridge  with 
its  mossy  ooze  led  over  the  winding  river  toward 
Trenton  Waters,  three  miles  north,  stood  a  stone 
tower.  In  it  an  old  ship's  bell  hung,  which,  so  report 
said,  had  once  rung  meal  hours  and  lullabies  and  other 
clock  stations  for  a  captain  and  crew  whose  gory 
barque  flew  the  "Jolly  Roger."  The  aged  pensioner, 
who  collected  the  tow-path  tolls,  rang  the  strokes  of 
the  hour  on  this  bell  from  six  a.m.  until  six  p.m.,  and, 
so  closely  did  the  low,  curving  hills  advance  to  smile 
upon  each  other  from  both  sides  of  the  running  water 
that  they  made  a  channel  for  the  sound — like  a 
great,  twisted,  golden  horn — so  that  the  bell-tones, 
rung  out  at  the  crossroads,  were  heard  at  Roseborough 
and  at  Poplars  Vale  and  even  rolled  their  echoes, 
when  the  wind  was  kind,  upon  the  town  of  Trenton 
Waters. 

Nine  o^clock!  Rosamond  heard  it  pealing  as  she 
reached  the  terrace. 

"I  must  hurry  to  find  whatever  it  is  I  am  looking 
for,"  she  said,  "because  my  Wonderful  Day  won't 

33 


34        ''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!'' 

wait.  It  will  move  on,  hour  by  hour,  just  like  any- 
other  day." 

The  house  was  on  a  jut  of  the  hill,  sheer  above  the 
gravel  road  and  midway  from  the  summit.  The 
road  must  make  a  long  detour  about  the  grounds  of 
Villa  Rose  ere  it  could  continue  its  progress  round 
and  over  the  hilltops  and  on  toward  more  modern 
and  populous  districts  of  Old  Canada.  At  the  foot 
of  the  incline  was  the  village  proper,  occupying  three 
streets  in  triangle  about  a  combined  courthouse, 
police  station  and  gaol,  the  latter  seldom  visited 
even  by  the  constables.  On  one  street  corner  the 
post  office  stood,  flanked  by  a  few  small  houses. 
The  other  two  streets  shared  between  them  the 
business  buildings  of  Roseborough;  such  as  Bilkin's 
meat  market  and  hardware  store;  Miss  Jenny's 
millinery  and  dressmaking  establishment;  George 
Dollop's  drugs,  stationery  and  lending  library,  with 
John  Dollop,  plumber,  and  James  Dollop,  undertaker, 
adjoining,  and  Horace  Ruggle  of  the  telegraph  office 
next  door;  and  Brandon's  stables  and  feed  store. 

In  going  over  the  hill's  brow  and  on  to  the  vague 
unknown,  the  road  led  past  Charleroy  College 
whither  the  lads  within  twenty  miles  came  to  acquire 
knowledge.  The  residential  portion  of  Roseborough, 
comprising  about  sixty  houses  and  gardens,  spread 
about  the  hillsides  between  the  village  and  Charleroy. 

The  sun  fell  aslant  over  the  garden  and  the  orchard. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMONDT        35 

as  if  indeed  it  had  cast  a  golden  net  about  Villa  Rose 
to  snare  the  willing  lady  thereof  in  a  witchery  from 
which  she  might  never  escape.  To  decide  that  this 
was  to  be  the  great  day  of  her  life,  a  day  of  splendid 
adventure,  was  one  thing;  to  make  it  so — ^to  make 
any  day  a  day  of  adventure  in  Roseborough — ^was 
quite  another.  Pondering  ways  and  means  of 
conjuring  up  romance,  she  fluttered  about  among 
the  blazing  dahlia  beds  like  a  huge  lavender  butter- 
fly. 

"Oh!"  She  stopped  suddenly.  "I  shall  not  de- 
serve my  Wonderful  Day  if  I  don't  take  Mrs.  Lee  her 
flowers  and  her  fruit,  as  usual. '* 

She  ran  back  to  the  verandah  and  picked  up  a 
willow  basket  containing  stout  gloves  and  shears 
and  returned  to  the  flower  beds.  She  lingered  only 
a  moment  or  two  among  the  dahlias.  Beyond  their 
haughty  glory  lay  the  rose  garden,  a  radiant  and 
random  half  acre  spilling  forth  every  tint  and 
perfume  known  to  the  rose  family.  Here  Rosamond's 
shears  went  to  work  busily.  She  found  dehght  in 
the  task,  for  she  hummed  again  the  little  minuet 
theme  which  she  had  recomposed  into  this  day's 
salutation  to  herself. 

When  one  is  young,  not  only  with  the  fearless 
years  but  with  the  brave  desires  of  youth  and  eager 
for  fairy  tale  happenings,  so  that  every  other  sen- 
tence   begins    with    "I    wonder!"    one    must    talk; 


36        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

and  if  fate  has  set  one  in  a  high  and  lonely  place  with 
no  young,  imaginative  twin  soul  to  companion  one's 
dreams,  then  one  must  talk  to  oneself — not  merely 
in  silence  but  with  the  uttered  phrase.  Rosamond 
talked  to  herself  habitually. 

She  was  musing  aloud  now: 

"I  wonder  how  it  would  feel  to  own  all  this — Villa 
Rose  and  its  gardens — ^with  love,  and  then  to  lose  it — 
and  love,  too.  Mrs.  Lee  did.  Fm  afraid  I  couldn't 
be  sweet  about  it,  as  she  is."  She  concluded  pre- 
sently that  in  such  circumstances  she  would  even  feel 
resentful  when  flowers  were  brought  to  her  from 
the  garden  that  had  once  been  hers. 

She  pictured  Mrs.  Lee  in  thought  as  she  would 
see  her  presently — seated  in  her  bit  of  garden,  knit- 
ting, or  perhaps  indoors,  lovingly  sorting  and  dusting 
the  precious  (and,  it  must  be  confessed,  prosy) 
manuscripts  written  by  her  husband  during  his  forty 
years  as  professor  of  literature  at  Charleroy.  She 
would  hear  the  gentle  voice  greeting  her  lovingly — 
not  because  she  was  the  rich  Mrs.  Mearely  but  be- 
cause Mrs.  Lee  instinctively  greeted  all  the  world 
lovingly.  Under  the  white  hair  and  dainty,  white 
lace  cap,  the  kind  eyes,  which  had  seen  seventy  years 
of  life — ^with  its  human  sun  and  shadow — go  by, 
would  beam  out  of  the  delicately  wrinkled  face  with  a 
delight  in  the  flowers'  beauty  and  fragrance  as  spon- 
taneous and  young  as  youth  itself — the  spirit  which 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        37 

discounts  time  because  its  habitation  is  with  the 
good  and  the  eternal. 

"Maybe  it  is  because  she  never  thinks  of  herself 
that  she  has  never  found  out  that  she  hasn't  things 
any  more." 

Mrs.  Lee's  abihty  to  be  happy,  even  after  fate  had 
bereft  her  of  everything,  was  a  subject  full  of  unusual 
interest  for  Rosamond  this  morning.  By  some  art 
'this  lonely  woman,  past  her  seventieth  milestone, 
managed  to  make  every  day  of  her  life  her  '^ wonderful 
day."  The  song  of  her  "Good-morning!"  came  out 
of  a  deep-toned,  divine  joy  which  neither  age,  pov- 
erty, nor  grief  could  blur.  The  wistful  look  was  in 
Rosamond's  eyes  again  as  she  passed  out  of  the  rose 
garden  and  into  the  orchard  on  her  way  to  make  her 
daily  offering. 

The  orchard  lay  higher  than  the  garden  and  the 
house.  Rosamond  went  on  up  rustic  steps,  made  of 
earth  and  roots,  that  led  between  irregular  lines  of 
pear  trees  weighted  to  the  ground  with  their  promise 
of  brown  and  golden  fruit.  She  made  her  way  to  a 
huge  cherry  tree,  ran  nimbly  up  the  ladder,  and  cov- 
ered the  bottom  of  her  basket  with  large>  red- 
cheeked,  white  cherries;  then,  jumping  down,  she 
hastened  on  up  the  remaining  steps  into  a  small 
grass  plot  surrounding  a  tiny  cottage.  A  beech  tree 
took  up  its  full  share  of  the  grounds  and,  close  beside 
it,  as  if  in  friendly  converse,  rose  the  rustic,  vine- 


38        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

clad  top  of  a  well  with  wet  bucket  hung  high  on  the 
roller. 

Mrs.  Lee  sat  in  a  rocker  beside  the  well,  knitting. 
Her  ball  of  yarn  was  filliping  about  the  sward  under 
the  paws  of  a  white  kitten  whose  smudgy  face  be- 
trayed a  nature  so  obsessed  with  the  entrancing 
amusements  of  a  woollen  tangle  that  the  duty  of  the 
daily  ablution  was  wholly  forgotten. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lee,  I'm  late;  but  here  they  are.'* 
Rosamond  held  out  her  basket. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Mearely.  How  you  spoil 
me,  my  dear!  What  lovely  roses — oh,  and  dahhas! 
— dahlias  of  the  very  hue  of  Hfe  itself,  the  unquench- 
able crimson  flame.  How  bravely  and  confidently 
they  give  themselves  to  the  sun  and  blend  with  its 
rays!     And  cherries,  too!"  i 

Rosamond  laughed. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Lee,  how  can  you  pretend  to  feel  such 
delighted  surprise  when  you  knew  perfectly  well  that 
I'd  bring  them  to-day  just  as  I  always  do.f"' 

"Ah,  my  dear,  that  is  the  very  secret  of  happiness." 
She  paused  to  pick  up  a  dropped  stitch,  and  Rosa- 
mond, eager  for  data  on  this  subject  above  all  others, 
asked  quickly: 

''What  is  the  secret  of  happiness?" 

"Why — don't  you  know.?  It  is  to  anticipate  only 
what  you  know  will  surely  happen.  Then  your  every 
desire  comes  to  pass.    And  the  surprise  you  feel  is  not 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        39 

so  much  surprise,  after  all,  as  a  kind  of  charmed 
wonder  that  life  is  so  beautifully  arranged." 

"/j-  life  beautifully  arranged,  Mrs.  Lee?"  Rosa- 
mond took  the  basket  from  her  friend's  lap,  where  it 
interfered  with  the  stocking's  progress,  and  set  it  on 
the  grass.  She  sank  down  on  the  broad,  rustic  seat 
which  surrounded  the  well's  rim. 

"Isitwo^.^  I  am  sure  you  feel  that  it  is.  To  you, 
in  particular,  in  spite  of  the  one  great  grief,  life  must 
seem  like  a  fairy  tale.  I  must  pause  in  discussion 
of  this  infinite  theme  to  remark  upon  your  appear- 
ance, my  dear.  You  look  ravishing  this  morning. 
What  a  beautiful  frock!  I  know  that  it  has  been 
hard  for  you  to  put  away  the  last  black  ribbons. 
Although  it  is  just  what  he  would  wish,  it  seems  to 
you  like  wilfully  forgetting  the  beloved  one." 

She  laid  a  comforting  hand  lightly  for  a  moment 
on  Rosamond's.  Rosamond,  remembering  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  had  discarded  the  black-garnished, 
lavender  dress,  drooped  her  head  quickly  to  hide 
alike  the  little  blush  of  shame  that  tinted  her  cheeks 
and  the  wicked  twinkle  that  brightened  her  eyes. 

"It  is  so  fortunate,"  Mrs.  Lee  went  on,  "that  there 
are  no  'styles'  in  Roseborough.  In  Roseborough  all 
your  lovely  frocks  will  be  as  fashionable  now  as  when 
you  bought  them,  four  or  five  years  ago.  Miss 
Jenny  says  that  she  does  not  know  what  this  genera- 
tion is  coming  to,  because,  even  in  Trenton  Waters, 


40        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

they  are  beginning  to  ask  whether  a  garment  or  a 
ribbon  is  'in  style'  before  they  buy  it.  Miss  Jenny 
says  that  she  has  seen  some  of  those  so-called  stylish 
hats,  and  garments  of  various  kinds,  and  that  she  is 
willing  to  take  her  *  solemn  oath  in  court' — as  she 
expressed  it,  being  very  much  moved — that  a  few 
scissor-snips  would  have  laid  the  whole  in  ruins. 
*Mrs.  Lee,'  she  said  to  me,  'when  Jenny  Hackensee 
sews  a  bow  on  even  a  child's  hat,  or  a  bone  button 
on  the  band  of  a  genteel  woman's  flannel  petticoat, 
my  conscience  is  satisfied  that  it  will  never  come  off!' 
Poor  Miss  Jenny.  She  fears  that  the  Roseborough 
ladies  may  forget  her  worth  and  run  after  follies. 
My  dear  husband  used  to  say  that  that  trait  was  one 
of  the  charms  of  Roseborough — namely,  the  loving 
regard  each  person  in  the  community  has  for  the 
general  morale.'' 

"Yes,  that  trait  is  very  marked  in  Roseborough." 
Again  Mrs.  Mearely's  drooped  head  hid  a  twinkle. 

"It  rejoices  me  to  see  you  in  that  dainty  Hlac  and 
white.  It  is  just  as  if  the  fragrance  and  tints  of 
spring  had  lingered  to  make  midsummer  more  be- 
witching." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  me  vain  again  to-day, 
as  you  always  do.?" 

"Nonsense,  dear  child.  Does  expatiating  on  the 
beauty  of  a  rose  or  a  brook  make  it  vain  ?  Beauty  is 
one  of  heaven's  choicest  gifts,  and  is  always  to  be 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        41 

admired  gratefully.  How  foolish  must  any  fair 
woman  be  who  allows  herself  to  become  vain — as  if 
the  beauty  admired  were  her  possession  exclusively, 
and  not  a  free  gift  to  the  eyes  of  all  beholders !  She 
might  as  reasonably  be  conceited  about  holding  up 
a  candle  in  the  dusk." 

Rosamond  put  out  a  hand  and  stopped  the  knitting 
for  the  moment.  "You  were  going  to  show  me  how 
perfectly  Hfe  is  arranged.  I  need  to  be  shown.'* 
She  laughed. 

"Perhaps  I  did,  too,  at  your  age.  And  I  was. 
For  I  married  a  remarkable  man  and  Hfe  became  for 
me  at  once  very  simple  and  large — something  like 
the  process  of  Nature's  unfoldment  under  sunlight. 
Professor  Lee's  spirit  was  just  that — a  mellow  sun- 
shine, which  made  for  growth  in  those  who  lived  with- 
in its  radius.  A  bright  and  searching  spirit  it  was; 
for  it  revealed  to  you  the  weeds  as  well  as  the  grain, 
but  in  such  a  way  that  you  were  not  hurt  or  humili- 
ated; your  only  feeHng  was  a  sense  of  freedom,  of 
relief  that  a  danger  had  been  pointed  out,  and  that 
you  had  therefore  escaped  it." 

"Perhaps  it  would  not  be  so  difficult  to  give  up 
one's  faults  if  one  were  told  about  them  in  that  way. 
One  would  have  no  reason  for  trying  to  excuse  them." 

"Ah,  that  was  it  exactly!  He  always  said  that 
when  you  deprived  people  of  the  feeling  of  personal 
possession  in  their  errors  you  took  away  their  only 


42        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

reason  for  clinging  to  those  errors.  But  for  this 
egoism,  we  would  all  see  clearly  enough  how  inde- 
fensible are  many  of  the  traits  we  justify.  My  hus- 
band would  have  refused  outright,  if  he  could,  to 
believe  there  was  any  evil  in  the  world  at  all.  He 
did  insist  that  it  was  no  true  part  of  any  person. 
That  was  why  he  could  help  others  so  wonderfully 
in  their  moral  struggles,  because  he  never  censured, 
never  expressed  a  personal  anger,  only  pointed  out 
the  wrong  as  if  it  were — as,  indeed,  he  regarded  it — 
an  outside  thing  trying  to  fasten  itself  on  the  un- 
suspecting individual.  He  used  to  say  that  moral 
victories  over  temptation  were  all-important — be- 
cause they  registered  something  permanent,  a  degree 
of  progress  won — but  that  defeats,  though  pitiable, 
were  not  deeply  important,  because  they  were  of  the 
moment  only — the  next  hour  might  see  victory; 
some  hour  must  see  it." 

"It  must  have  been  wonderful  for  his  students  to 
oe  trained  by  him— I  mean,  to  be  taught  first  to  look 
at  Hfe  and  themselves  by  a  man  who  had  such  a  deep 
faith  within  him.  But  weren't  you  always  busy 
keeping  bad  people  from  taking  advantage  of  him?'* 

''Sometimes;  but  far  less  often  than  you  would 
think.  I  came  to  see  that  this  spirit  of  my  dear  hus- 
band's, so  far  from  bringing  deception  and  imposture 
upon  him,  really  contained  its  own  protection  against 
these  things.     Those  who  were  unworthy  of  his  Inter- 


"  Mrs.  Lee  sat  in  her  rocker  knitting.  Her  ball  of 
yarn  was  filliping  about  the  sward  under  the  paws  of  a 
white  kitten" 


c      «     • 
•     c   » 


•  t 

*  c 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        43 

est  soon  eliminated  themselves.  He  never  seemed 
to  guess  why  they  went — but  saw  them  go  and  wished 
them  well." 

"To  live  for  nearly  fifty  years  with  a  man  like 
that  might  make  me  also  believe  that  life  is  beauti- 
fully arranged.  But  I  am  not  convinced  this  morn- 
ing." 

"You  are  wilful!" 

"  I  know  it.  There  will  be  only  twenty-four  hours  in 
this  day  and  I  need  at  least  twice  that."     She  paused. 

Mrs.  Lee  smiled  as  she  said:  "You  flit  from  one 
subject  to  another  like  a  bee  after  honey!  My 
mental  wings  take  slow  and  reasoned  flights.  I 
cannot  follow  you.  What  am  I  to  make  of  your  last 
inconsequential  spurt  through  the  air — that,  for  you, 
Ufe  would  be  rightly  arranged  if  this  particular  day 
could  have  double  hours?     If  so,  why?" 

Rosamond  laughed. 

"Don't  let  me  give  you  'nerves,'  Mrs.  Lee.  I 
know  I  do  lack  sequence,  and  that,  to  the  life  com- 
panion of  a  professor  of  Hterature,  must  be  very 
trying.  I  can  begin  things  wonderfully  and  I  know 
the  ending  I  want;  but  I  can't  fill  in  the  middle  part. 
The  middle  is  just  dots  and  dashes." 

"Principally  dashes,"  Mrs.  Lee  smiled. 

"Principally.  This  time,  though,  there  is  a  con- 
nection. To-day  is  to  be  my  Wonderful  Day.  So,  if 
life  really  is  beautifully  arranged  I  must  find  it  out 


44        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

before  to-morrow.  And  even  a  forty-eight  hour  day 
is  hardly  long  enough  for  one's  only  Wonderful  Day." 

"Oh,  youth,  youth!  With  all  Hfe  before  it,  it 
must  still  invent  limits  for  itself  and  tragic  *ifs'  and 
*buts'  and  *perhapses.'  Why  must  to-day  alone  be 
wonderful?     Every  day  has  its  wonders." 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment;  then  Rosa- 
mond leaned  over  and  kissed  the  elder  woman's 
cheek — a  fragile  bit  of  pale  pink  and  ivory  modelling, 
faintly  impressed  with  many  tiny  Hues.  She  knew 
that  she  could  not  uncover  to  Mrs.  Lee's  eyes  all  the 
remote  reasons  for  her  mood  of  this  morning.  She 
who  had  worn  her  weeds  in  loving  sorrow  and  resigna- 
tion must  not  be  told  of  the  young  heart  beating  its 
rebellious  tattoo  for  long  irksome  months,  under 
crape  and  plain  black,  black  and  white,  and  lavender 
with  black  trimmings — nor  of  the  hoydenish  kick 
which  had  cast  the  last  stage  of  woe  from  her  forever. 

It  seemed  to  Rosamond,  then,  that  the  cynic 
touch  of  disillusionment,  and  not  the  mere  passing 
of  time,  was  what  aged;  and  that,  according  to 
such  calculation,  she  was  years  older  than  Mrs.  Lee. 
Twenty-four's  responsibility  was  to  guard  the  couleur 
de  rose  for  Seventy!  Her  thoughts  culminated  in 
the  inward  exclamation: 

"It  makes  a  difference,  even  in  one's  «g^,  what  sort 
of  a  man  one  marries!" 

Aloud,  she  said: 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        45 

"You  see,  I  called  this  my  'Wonderful  Day,'  and 
put  on  this  frock  to  celebrate  it.  So  I  must  make  it 
wonderful,  mustn't  I?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  dear,  and  all  the  midsummer 
fairies  will  help  you,"  her  friend  answered. 

Mrs.  Lee  was  placidly  and  patiently  unmingling 
her  kitten  and  her  wool,  which  had  revolved  and  re- 
solved themselves  into  one  untidy  ball  with  a  miewing 
centre. 

Two  sounds  broke  upon  the  lull  in  conversation. 

Near  by  clattered  the  hoofs  of  the  letter  carrier's 
pony  rounding  the  hill's  turn  to  the  front  gate.  Far 
down  by  the  river  the  old  bell  rang  its  song  of  ten 
o'clock  into  the  mouth  of  the  golden  horn  valley,  and 
the  tones — muted  but  round  and  perfect — floated 
up  across  the  hillside  gardens  and  carried,  even  here, 
their  separate  theme  dimly  above  the  murmurs  of 
wind-rippled  leaves  and  dripping  bucket. 

"Morning,  Mrs.  Lee.  Morning,  Mrs.  Mearely, 
ma'am." 

Mr.  Horace  Ruggle — ^who  was  the  mail  carrier 
twice  daily  when  he  was  not  the  telegraph  agent, 
and  vice  versa — blinked  perspiringly  over  the  gate. 
Mr.  Ruggle  was  stout — deliberately  and  tyrannically 
stout,  no  doubt  his  equine  would  have  said,  had  there 
been  a  bit  of  speech  instead  of  a  bit  of  steel  in  his 
mouth — and  whatever  he  did  was  done  with  gusty 
effort. 


46        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Ruggle.  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  a  letter  for  me?"  Mrs.  Lee  queried,  putting 
her  knitting  aside  and  rising  to  the  rare  occasion. 
Rosamond  ran  forward  to  receive  it. 

"One  for  you  and  one  for  Mrs.  Mearely."  Mr. 
Ruggle  put  the  letters  into  Rosamond's  hand. 
"Yours  has  come  quite  a  ways;  but  Mrs.  Mearely's 
is  just  from  Poplars.  It'll  be  from  her  folks,  Hkely. 
Mebbe  her  mother's  took  sick  or  her  sister's  children's 
caught  a  epidemic;  or,  more  likely  yet,  has  had  a 
accident  with  that  new  farm  machinery." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  I  hope  not!"  Mrs.  Lee  looked 
upon  him  with  gentle  disapprobation  as  if  she 
considered  his  attempts  to  rival  the  literary  imagi- 
nation of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  wholly  out  of  tune  with 
a  midsummer  morning  in  Roseborough.  "Do  tell 
me  there  is  nothing  of  the  sort,  Mrs.  Mearely,  I 
can't  enjoy  my  own  missive  until  I  know.  Mr. 
Ruggle  has  alarmed  me." 

"Telegrapher  and  postman,"  Mr.  Ruggle  wheezed, 
mopping  his  huge  cheeks,  "I'm  the  Bad  News  Syndi- 
cate. I  made  that  anecdote  first  along  in  the  'nine- 
ties,' when  the  newspaper  at  Trenton  joined  the 
news  syndicate  and  gave  me  the  idea;  but  it's  a  joke 
that's  always  good.  Back  about  six  years  ago,  I 
added  something  to  it  that's  made  it  even  better. 
It's  this:  'If  I  carry  bad  news  and  don't  know  it, 
who    carries    worse    and    knows    it?'     Answer:    the 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        47 

undertaker.'"  He  took  his  own  time  and  told  it  to 
the  bitter  end  despite  Mrs.  Lee's  poHte,  but  none-the- 
less  quite  marked,  attempts  to  prevent  the  sombre 
jest's  completion. 

"Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Ruggle.  You  are  fond  of  your  wit, 
we  know;  but  while  you  are  entertaining  us,  think  of 
the  impatient  ones  elsewhere  waiting  for  their  letters." 

"Right  you  are,  ma'am — impatient  for  their 
doom,  never  thinking  as  how  what  they  don't  know 
won't  hurt  them."  Mr.  Ruggle  drew  his  pony's  head 
out  of  the  greenery  about  the  fence.  "Bad  news 
from  Poplars.^" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all."  Mrs.  Mearely  gave  him  a 
nod  that  meant  dismissal. 

"It  is  only  a  line  from  my  sister,  Mrs.  Lee,  saying 
she  can't  come  to  me  for  a  week." 

"Should  think  you'd  be  looking  in  your  own  en- 
velope, ma'am,"  Mr.  Ruggle  hinted  to  Mrs.  Lee. 
"It's  come  quite  a  ways." 

"Not  just  now;  I  must  find  my  other  glasses  first, 
so  I  shall  wait  some  time." 

"Well,  you  may,  but  /  can't!"  The  nonplussed 
Mr.  Ruggle  masked  his  disappointment  with  a  face- 
tious air.  "Good-day,  ladies."  The  over-freighted 
pony  jogged  on  up  the  hill. 

"Dear,  dear,  I  wonder  how  many  thousand  times 
Mr.  Ruggle  has  repeated  to  me  that  unpleasant 
'anecdote'  of  his,  as  he  insists  on  calling  it."     Mrs. 


48        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Lee  shook  her  head,  with  a  mild  perplexity  that  any- 
one should  evince  a  taste  for  such  humour. 

"Dreadful  person!"  Rosamond  concurred. 
"Wouldn't  you  suppose  that  an  ordinary  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  would  keep  a  fat  man  from  being 
morbid?" 

Mrs.  Lee  laughed  heartily. 

"Fm  afraid  I  have  been  guilty  of  a  tiny  fib.  Al- 
though I  generally  use  my  other  glasses  for  reading, 
I  do  not  positively  require  them.  Still  I  do  feel  that 
I  should  not  be  compelled  to  share  my  mail  with 
Mr.  Ruggle."  She  slipped  a  knitting  needle  under 
the  flap  and  opened  the  envelope  deftly.  Presently 
a  murmur  of  delight  caused  her  guest  to  say: 

"No  epidemics  or  accidents  in  your  letter,  either! 
I  heard  you  purr."  ^ 


CHAPTER  V 

IT'S  from  Jack — our  Jack — and  he  is  coming 
home!"  Mrs.  Lee's  deeply  set,  dark  eyes  were 
shining,  her  cheeks  flushed;  her  voice,  keen-toned 
with  happiness,  denied  her  three  score  and  ten  years. 

"Oh,  I  hardly  dared  to  believe  it  when  he  wrote 
months  ago  that  he  would  come!  But  he  did  mean 
it — the  dear,  dear  lad.  Listen:  *I  will  walk  in 
upon  you  on  the  morning  of  the  fifteenth.'  The 
fifteenth?  why,  that  will  be  to-morrow!  To-morrow 
morning!  Oh,  think  of  it,  Mrs.  Mearely!  I,  too, 
am  to  have  my  'wonderful  day';  and  it  is  to  be 
to-morrow!" 

"Who  is  coming  to-morrow?  It  should  be  a  re- 
markable person  indeed  to  inspire  all  this  joy." 

"Oh,  he  is!  But  you  shall  see  for  yourself.  It  is 
Jack  Falcon." 

"And  who  is  Jack  Falcon?  His  hawk-Hke  name 
makes  me  none  the  wiser!"  Rosamond  laughed  in 
asking. 

"Oh,  you  will  not  recall  him  at  all.  You  must 
have  been  a  small  child  when  he  went  away.  Oh, 
dear,  I  am  so  excited!  To-morrow  morning!  Come 
in  with  me,  dear  friend,  and  do  help  advise  me  what 

49 


50        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

preparations  to  make.  And  let  me  chatter,  too; 
for,  really,  if  I  cannot  let  out  some  of  this  exhilaration 
in  words,  I  fear  I  shall  just  puff  and  puff  and  go  up 
like  a  balloon." 

"No,  you  won't,  for  Til  hold  on  to  you!" 

"Oh,  come  in,  dear,  and  help  me — advise  me." 
.   She  drew  Rosamond's  hand  through  her  arm. 

"I  shall  love  to  help  in  anything  that  makes  you  so 
happy.  And  to-morrow,  early,  you  shall  have  fresh 
flowers  and  fruit — and  everything  that  Villa  Rose 
can  supply.  If  only  Amanda  and  Jemima  were  there 
to  cook  things!  But  they  went  to  Trenton  for  the 
day,"  she  added,  not  wishing  to  cloud  Mrs.  Lee's 
joy  by  a  recital  of  His  Friggets'  sudden  sorrow. 
"But  there!  /  can  cook!  I'll  bake  a  cake.  It  will 
be  fun  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  will  you?  Oh,  think  of  that!" 
Mrs.  Lee  fluttered  in  ahead  of  her.  "I  must  decide 
which  room  to  give  him." 

"You  haven't  any  room.  He'll  have  to  sleep  in 
the  well!" 

"Ah!  I  have  it!  yes!  I've  just  thought  that  I 
can  use  the  little  room  as  a  dining-room  and  give 
Jack  the  dining-room  because  of  the  two  sun  windows 
looking  down  toward  the  river.  He  will  want  a 
sunny  room  to  work  in." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room  where  light 
and  colour  reigned  even  in  the  woodwork  and  dra- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        51 

penes.  Purple,  pink,  and  blue  morning-glories, 
burdened  with  bees,  peered  in  at  the  broad,  low 
windows. 

"To  work.?"  Rosamond  repeated  interrogatively. 

"Yes — I  haven't  told  even  you  yet.  It  has  been 
such  a  secret!  It  is  the  professor's  manuscripts.  I 
have  arranged  them.  Oh!  it  took  months  to  sort 
them.     Look." 

She  drew  aside  the  scrim  curtains  before  a  low 
bookcase.  The  shelves  were  packed  with  notebooks 
and  loose  pages  covered  with  small,  even  writing,  all 
lying  in  neat  piles. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear,  and  let  me  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

She  pressed  her  guest  into  a  little  wicker  chair 
trimmed  with  rose  chintz,  and  then  sat  at  the  table, 
herself,  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  manuscripts  before 
her.  Marking  a  place  with  her  forefinger,  she 
continued : 

"You  see,  since  my  dear  husband  went  away, 
these  have  been  my  companions." 

"He  must  have  written  a  great  deal  that  no  one 
else  knew  about.     Why  were  they  never  published  ?" 

"Ah,  that  is  the  secret,  dear!  They  will  be  pub- 
lished. These  are  all  thoughts  of  his,  fruits  of  ex- 
perience, little  jottings  on  life  and  human  character 
as  he  had  observed  them,  descriptive  and  philo- 
sophical essays:  the  result,  as  he  said,  of  having  been 


52        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

taught  faithfully  and  diversely  by  youth  for  forty 
years." 

"Of  being  taught  by  youth!"  Rosamond  repeated. 
"Oh!  what  things  youth  could  teach  if  age  would 
only  let  it."     Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"He  often  spoke  of  it  in  that  way,  as  if  he  were  the 
pupil,  and  a  very  fortunate  one,  of  all  the  hundreds  of 
boys  who  passed  through  his  hands.  And  I  know 
that  he  hoped,  in  these  writings,  to  give  back  to  his 
boys — in  their  maturer  life,  when  they  could  appre- 
ciate it — some  of  the  gold  of  their  youth." 

"Did  he  care  so  much  for  all  of  them.?" 

"He  cared  for  every  living  thing.  In  loving  any 
individual  it  was  all  life  that  he  loved  with  all  its 
potentialities.  It  came  to  me  that  if  I  could  only 
publish  these  notes  and  essays  I  would  thus  extend 
his  influence  although  he  is  no  longer  personally  here. 
I  wrote  to  several  of  the  boys  about  it.  (I  must  still 
call  them  *boys,'  although  some  have  their  gray 
and  their  bald  spots,  no  doubt — and  their  whiskers!) " 

"So  Jack  Falcon,  dear  filial  soul,  is  bald  and 
whiskered,"  Rosamond  murmured.  "I  might  have 
known  it." 

Mrs.  Lee,  examining  the  manuscripts,  in  a  search 
for  some  special  article  or  paragraph,  did  not  hear 
her. 

"Some  of  the  boys  were  interested,  and  some  I 
thought  were  a  trifle  indiff'erent;  but  Jack  wrote  that 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        53 

he  would  come  home  to  help  arrange  and  edit  the 
scattered  notes  into  coherent  form.  He  said  he  was 
willing  to  give  a  year  to  the  task,  if  need  be.  And — 
think  of  it — he  was  ever  so  far  away  in  southern 
Europe  at  the  time!  Somewhere  in  those  excitable 
Balkans." 

"The  poor  old  thing  was  probably  scared  to  death 
in  the  Balkans  and  grasped  at  the  opportunity  to  get 
to  a  quiet  spot,"  went  through  Rosamond's  mind, 
but  she  said,  aloud:  "He  has  a  good,  loyal  heart, 
evidently,  and  deserves  that  I  bake  him  a  cake." 

"Indeed  he  does.  Though  he  was  a  dreadful  cake- 
thief  as  a  boy.  I  had  to  wrap  my  cakes  in  a  towel 
and  hide  them  in  my  bonnet  box.  He  would  go 
barefoot  on  long  tramps  through  the  valley  and  then 
come  into  the  house,  after  we  had  retired,  and  eat  up 
everything.     The  dear  boy!" 

"He  wouldn't  have  done  it  a  second  time  with  my 
cakes !  The  idea  of  crawling  in  through  windows  at 
midnight  hunting  for  food!     Vd  'dear  boy'  him!" 

Mrs.  Lee  laughed. 

"Oh,  dear,  how  I  am  rambling  on!  It  is  the  excite- 
ment, and  not  knowing  what  to  tell  you  first.  But 
I  fear  that  authentic  news  of  Jack  Falcon  could  never 
be  grouped  in  orderly  fashion,  for  he  himself  was  a 
very  disorderly,  lawless  person.     But  so  lovable!" 

In  chattering  breathlessly,  as  she  was,  her  slender 
fingers  had  been  searching  rather  inefficiently  among 


54        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

the  leaflets;  but  now  it  appeared  that  she  had  found 

what  she  wanted. 

"Here's  his  letter,  pinned  to  this  little  prose  poem 

about  Roseborough." 

"He  writes  poems  about  Roseborough ? " 

"Oh,  no,  no!     It  is  the  professor's.     You  see  I 

copied  the  little  gem  about  our  dear  old  town  and 

enclosed  it  when  I  first  wrote  him  about  publishing. 

I  wanted  it  to  awaken  the  home  desire  in  him.     He 

has   never   married — it   is   too   bad.     Wait     .     .     . 

oh,  here  it  is.     He  says: 

"I  remember  that  names  and  dates  never  stayed  in  your 
head,  Mother  Lee,  even  simple  Anglo-Saxon  names.  So 
I  won't  burden  you  with  the  extensive  and  excruciating 
hereditary  title  of  the  royal  personage  who  just  now 
employs  me  at  a  handsome  salary  in  laying  out  a  recreation 
garden  for  his  peasants.  You  would  weary  and  faint 
before  you  reached  the  end  of  it !  Suffice  it  for  your  pride 
to  know  that  I  have  given  to  this  royal  personage  the 
little  article  about  Roseborough.  It  came  about,  natur- 
ally, one  day  in  the  garden  that  I  read  it  to  him.  He  was 
charmed  with  it,  touched.  So  I,  of  course,  let  him  keep 
it.  He  has  translated  it  into  his  own  jawcracking 
language  [Jawcracking'  is  in  brackets — the  naughty  boy!], 
and  has  made  an  illuminated  copy  which  hangs  in  his  music 
room  where  he  spends  most  of  his  time. 

"There,  my  dear!  Is  not  that  something  to  be  proud 
of?  To  think  that  my  dear  husband  is  even  helping  un- 
pronounceable personages  in  those  dreadful  Balkans ! " 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        55 

Rosamond's  own  cheeks  were  rosy  from  sympa- 
thetic thrill  and  she  joined  warmly  in  the  elder 
woman's  delight. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lee,  how  lovely!  J  should  think  you 
would  be  so  proud  that  you  would  refuse  to  speak  to 
poor  commoners  like  us!  You  have  known  that  for 
weeks  and  never  told  it!  /  should  have  gone  up  and 
down  Roseborough  with  a  trumpet." 

"Oh,  you  must  not  tell  it  even  now !  I  wish  to  keep 
it  until  the  right  moment,  when  I  can  give  it  out 
in  such  a  way  that  all  Roseborough  will  feel  that  the 
honour  does  not  exalt  me,  in  a  personal  way,  but  is 
theirs  as  much  as  mine." 

Rosamond  cocked  her  head,  impudently. 

"Afraid  Mrs.  Witherby  will  scratch?" 

"No,  you  naughty  girl!  But  Roseborough,  having 
the  communal  spirit  so  strongly,  does  not  take  kindly 
to  personal  exaltations.  I  have  learned  to  respect 
this  sensitiveness." 

Rosamond's  eyes  twinkled  again,  as  she  listened 
to  Mrs.  Lee's  charitable  paraphrase  on  local  jealousy. 

"What  do  you  suppose  it  could  have  been,  about 
Roseborough,  that  appealed  to  the  Balkan  person.?" 
she  asked.  "Try  to  imagine  Roseborough  in  the 
Balkans!" 

"Do  you  know  I,  too,  wondered  about  that  at 
first?  Then  I  saw  how  natural  it  was — and  felt  that 
I  had  been  stupid  not  to  comprehend  it  at  once. 


56        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

What  should  appeal  to  those  poor,  sad,  explosive 
Balkans  so  much  as  Roseborough's  peacefulness  ? 
They  must  grow  very  tired  of  the  continuous  gun- 
popping  and  broken  glass,  and  long  for  the  'twelve 
hours  of  dreamless  sleep'  to  which  Professor  Lee 
alludes  in  the  article.  I  always  think  that  the  sound 
of  windows,  or  even  glass  tumblers,  breaking  is  such 
a  sharp,  perturbing  noise.  I  particularly  disHke  it. 
And  then,  too,  the  pieces  of  broken  glass,  flying 
through  the  air  or  scattered  in  profusion  about  the 
roads,  are  really  dangerous." 

She  was  adjusting  her  glasses,  so  did  not  see  the 
sparkles  of  merriment  in  Rosamond's  eyes. 

"The  article  is  short — only  a  few  hundred  words — 
let  me  read  it  to  you.  It  is  entitled"  (she  paused — 
dwelHng  lovingly  on  the  written  word  before  she 
uttered  it)  "*Roseborough.'  Listen."  She  repeated 
"  Roseborough." 

"Here,  where  all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere,  and  no 
harsh  word  is  ever  breathed  aloud,  I  will  spend  my  days — 
be  they  few  or  many.  Roseborough,  thou  art  the  other 
name  of  Happiness!  Thy  fragrance  is  a  spiritual  sweet 
that  exudes  from  fadeless  petals.  Thy  calm  days  are 
the  flower,  and  thy  velvety,  star-veined  nights  of  twelve 
hours  of  dreamless  sleep  are  the  leafy  stem,  of  my  perfect 
Rose  of  Content.  I  am  happy  indeed  to  be  a  busy  bee 
plying  my  simple  art  at  the  centre  of  this  sweetness.  For 
what  is  my  art — and  all  art?  What  is  the  art  of  pen, 
brush,  chisel,  and  melodic  strain?     These  are  but  parts 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        S7 

of  the  great  Art  of  Life,  namely  the  distillation  of  love. 
If  Happiness  be  thy  other  earthly  name,  dear  Roseborough, 
thy  *new  name' — ^written  in  the  heavens — is  Love.  To 
every  seeker  of  harmony,  thou  art  his  end  of  journeying; 
to  every  wanderer,  his  home. 

(Signed)  Ph.  Autocritus  Lee, 
2 1  St  June,  1895. 

"He  did  not  even  initial  all  that  he  wrote;  but  he 
must  have  felt  himself  that  this  was  especially  fine — 
of  course,  as  a  professor  of  literature,  with  degrees, 
he  would  know  that  about  his  own  work  as  well  as 
about  another's — for  he  signed  it  in  full  and  dated 
it.  Except  the  first  name,"  she  added.  "He  never 
signed  Phineas  but  always  used  Ph.  instead,  saying 
that  Ph.  was  short  for  philosophy  and  so  was  he, 
short  of  it,  in  spite  of  all  his  profound  cogitations." 

She  sat  gazing  at  the  faded  handwriting,  though 
the  tears,  that  slowly  formed  and  coursed  her  finely 
wrinkled  cheeks,  entirely  blurred  the  lines  for  her. 

"*Here  where  all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere.' 
To  think  that  he  wrote  that  about  Roseborough 
nearly  twenty  years  ago,  my  dear!  And  it  was  just 
as  true  then  as  it  is  now." 

Rosamond  put  both  her  arms  about  the  older 
woman's  neck  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  hers. 

"His  faith  saw  the  beautiful  truth  of  things,  noth- 
ing else.  It  was  the  same  quality  he  loved  best  in 
Jack.     He  used  to  say  that  Jack's  faith  was  like  the 


58        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

morning  lark.  Nothing  could  keep  it  from  soaring 
and  singing." 

"Then  he  is  the  right  person  to  edit  those  papers 
and  you  have  reason  to  be  happy." 

Mrs.  Lee  looked  down  into  Rosamond's  eyes  with 
unwonted  solemnity. 

"Mrs.  Mearely,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
now  which,  in  days  to  come,  you  will  hear  from  many 
others.  Then  you  will  remember  that  it  was  I  who 
first  told  it  to  you — here,  in  this  little  room.  Pro- 
fessor Lee  was  one  of  the  world's  great  and  original 
minds,  though  the  world  has  not  yet  found  it  out." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Lee,  I  am  sure  he  was." 

"While  Jack,  of  course,  agrees  with  me  about 
that,  he  feels  that  Professor  Lee's  highest  value  was 
of  another  quality.  He  writes  somewhere  in  this 
letter — ^wait;  yes,  it  is  in  this  one — mum-m-m. " 
She  buzzed  softly  over  the  lines,  hunting  for  the 
passage.     "Ah!  here  it  is: 

"I  think  that  to  lay  stress,  in  a  preface,  upon  the  vastness 
and  originality  of  Professor  Lee's  intellect  would  be  a 
mistake.  Besides,  in  these  careless  days,  the  words  have 
been  misapplied  until  their  meaning  is  nil." 

She  looked  up  from  the  letter.  "He  means  by 
that,  dear,  that  while  the  words  are  truly  applicable 
to  Professor  Lee  they  would  fail  to  make  him  so 
conceived  of  by  the  reader;  because  they  have  been 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        59 

used  noisily  by  persons  of  no  judgment  to  describe 
men  of  shallow  attainments — like  some  of  those 
unfortunate  foreign  professors,  for  instance,  who  are 
so  pathetically  askew  about  everything.  Poor  things. 
It  was  the  electron  that  set  them  all  off.  My  dear 
husband  used  to  say  that  the  atomic  theory,  though 
purely  materialistic  and  proving  nothing  in  the  world, 
was  nevertheless  not  inimical  to  scientists'  sobriety 
and  dignity,  but  that,  when  they  lost  the  atom,  they 
lost  their  heads  and  their  shoes  and  their  shirts  as 
well!  The  electronic  theory  proved  too  exciting 
for  them.  He  would  say  to  me:  *My  dear,  they 
should  have  held  on  to  the  atom.  It  was  much  the 
safer  toy!'  When  I  saw  the  other  day  that  radium 
has  shown  that  matter  disappears  altogether,  I 
wondered  what  the  poor  things  would  do  now.  They 
must  be  dreadfully  disturbed.^'  She  paused,  shaking 
her  head  from  side  to  side  in  sympathy. 

"What  else  does  Mr.  Falcon  say  about  Professor 
Lee?"  Rosamond  called  her  back,  tactfully,  to  the 
main  point. 

"Ah!  none  knows  better  than  Jack  that  Professor 
Lee  was  secretly  a  very  great  man.  He  goes  on  to 
say: 

"He  thought  and  said  the  things  which  all  good  and 
loving  men  have  thought  and  said,  and  in  much  the  same 
way.  Because  like  them,  he  had  discovered  the  truth  of 
those  things  through  living  it.     That  was  what  made  him 


6o  '     ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

priceless  to  us.  He  was  a  Sympathy — a  refining  and 
strengthening  animus — which  endured  and  went  with  us 
to  meet  Hfe.  The  world  of  letters,  science,  and  philosophy 
will  hardly  note  these  memoirs,  perhaps;  but  if  the  day 
ever  comes  when  greatness  is  measured  by  goodness — 
as  he  measured  it — and  hope,  faith,  and  charity  form  the 
lens  of  the  scientist's  microscope,  then  his  name,  like 
Abou  ben  Adhem's,  will  lead  all  the  rest!" 


"You  can  see  by  that  last  phrase  that  Jack  con- 
siders Professor  Lee  to  have  been  far  in  advance  of 
his  time  as  a  thinker." 

Rosamond  did  not  speak  at  once.  When  she  did, 
she  said: 

"Yes,  one  can  see  plainly  what  he  thinks,  and  also 
what  he  feels — which  is  more  important.  I  think 
he  is  a  very  nice  man,  your  Mr.  Falcon;  and  this 
afternoon  I  will  bake  him  a  marvellous  cake.  He 
deserves  it." 

Mention  of  food  brought  Mrs.  Lee  back  to  the 
immediate  present  and  its  problems. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  how  good  of  you!  I  shall  send  for 
Bella  Greenup  to  cook  other  things.  But  there  is 
something  even  more  important  than  food."  She 
paused  and  patted  her  lips  with  her  forefinger,  evi- 
dently cogitating  deeply. 

"What?" 

"Roseborough — dear,  sensitive  Roseborough. 
How  shall  I  present  my  Jack  to  Roseborough  so  that 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       6i 

everyone  will  feel  his  homecoming — and  the  book,  and 
all  of  it — to  be  a  communal  event  and  not  merely  a 
selfish,  personal  pleasure  of  mine  ?  That  will  require 
some  planning.  Yes,  it  will  need  some  quite  subtle 
planning." 

She  folded  her  hands  on  the  pile  of  notebooks. 
Her  absent  gaze  turned  to  the  window  where  the 
splashes  of  purple  and  pink  morning-glories  vignetted 
a  bit  of  sun-smitten  river.     She  was  thinking  hard. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ROSAMOND  regarded  her  with  eyes  a-twinkle  and 
presently  interrupted  her  meditation  to  ask: 

"What  did  Roseborough  think  of  him  before  he 
went  away?" 

Mrs.  Lee  sighed. 

"That  is  what  adds  to  the  difficulty.  The  truth 
is  that  Roseborough  hardly  knew  him.  Jack  did  not 
care  for  Roseborough!  It  seems  incredible,  but  it  is 
a  fact.  Jack  did  not  care  for  Roseborough — I  mean, 
the  people.  He  was  an  orphan  and  a  poor  lad  of 
whose  beginnings  we  knew  little.  He  came  to  us 
because,  in  his  wanderings,  he  had  met  a  Charleroy 
man  and  heard  from  him  of  my  husband.  He  had 
been  tramping  about  the  farming  country,  year 
after  year,  tilling,  sowing,  reaping — whatever  out- 
door work  he  could  get — and  saving  his  pennies  to 
put  toward  an  education  when  he  should  find  just 
the  right  instructor.  As  a  child  he  had  been  with 
gypsies." 

"Gypsies!     What  adventures!" 

"Yes,  his  mother,  a  young  girl  of  excellent  birth, 
had  run  away  and  married  a  poor  artist  and  been  cast 
ofF  by  her  proud  family.     They  suffered  the  hardship 

62 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        63 

of  poverty,  and  Jack  was  soon  left  an  orphan. 
Whether  he  joined  the  gypsies  or  they  stole  him  I 
don't  remember,  but  he  was  with  them  for  awhile. 
At  one  time  his  mother's  relations  found  him  and 
offered  to  bring  him  up,  but  he  considered  the  re- 
strictions of  their  home  too  irksome.  After  two 
years  of  it,  he  ran  off  and  wandered  about,  earning 
his  way,  as  I  have  told  you.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  night  he  came  to  us — it  was  a  rainy,  autumn 
evening — a  black,  splashing  night.  There  was  a 
loud  knock  on  the  door  and,  when  we  opened  it — 
for  I  had  followed  the  Professor,  holding  the  candle 
(we  did  not  have  electric  lights  in  our  day  in  Villa 
Rose) — there  stood  a  dark,  tall,  sturdy-looking 
young  man,  with  long,  black  hair  and  the  largest 
and  blackest  eyes  I'd  ever  seen;  and,  what's  more, 
he  stood  there  on  two  bare  feet,  and  he  had  no  coat, 
only  a  gray  woollen  shirt,  belted  into  dark,  fustian 
trousers  turned  up  above  his  ankles." 
"You  were  frightened,  weren't  you?" 
"Hardly  that;  I  was  more  amazed.  He  said — 
and  his  voice  was  mellow  and  attractive — *You  are 
Professor  Lee  and  I  have  come  to  you  to  be  taught.' 
My  husband  asked,  *What  do  you  wish  to  be  taught.?' 
And  Jack  said,  *I  can  read  and  write  and  keep  a 
merry  heart  under  all  skies;  but  I  wish  you  to  teach 
me  whatever  men  must  know  to  make  them  good 
and  wise.'     Then  my  husband  said,  'Come  in,  and 


64        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

I  will  give  you  dry  clothes  and  something  hot  to 
drink.'  Jack  answered,  *0h,  as  to  that,  the  weather 
and  I  are  friends.  It  never  hurts  me.'  Well,  my 
dear,  he  came  in  and  we  attended  to  his  needs  and 
gave  him  a  room  for  the  night.  Of  course  he  was 
not  ready  then  to  enter  college,  so  my  husband  gave 
him  private  instruction.  And  he  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  he  could  live  in  our  home  so  we  let 
him  have  the  little  room  off  the  living-room     .     .     ." 

"The  little  room?     Which  do  you  mean.?" 

"Oh,  that  is  all  changed  now,  of  course.  Mr. 
Mearely — ^when  he  bought  Villa  Rose — had  it 
enlarged  and  built  out,  taking  in  all  that  bend  of  the 
verandah.  It  is  your  music  room  now.  Jack  was 
a  good  deal  of  trouble,  you  may  know ! "  She  laughed. 
"But  he  loved  my  husband  and  was  constantly 
showing  his  gratitude,  so  that  I  never  minded  when 
he  upset  things." 

"And  he  didn't  Hke  Roseborough .?  You  could 
forgive  such  sacrilege.?" 

"One  forgave  Jack  everything.  He  made  very 
few  intimates.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  he  had  any  be- 
sides ourselves.  He  loved  Nature,  books,  and  soli- 
tude. He  was  elusive  and  shy,  I  think.  For  in- 
stance I  remember  that  one  day  while  we  three  were 
chatting  over  a  cup  of  chocolate  we  saw  dear  Mrs. 
Witherby  and  her  aged  uncle — the  late  Reverend  Dr. 
Cumming-Shaw  of  Trenton  Waters — drive  up  to  the 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        65 

door.  As  I  turned  back  from  greeting  them,  I  saw 
one  leg  of  Jack's  fustian  trousers  and  a  bare  foot 
disappearing  over  the  back  fence.  The  worst  of  it 
was,  he  had  taken  the  cake  with  him  and  I  had 
nothing  but  crackers  to  offer  the  poor  dear  old  vicar, 
who  died  almost  immediately  after  of  bronchitis. 
It  was  really  whooping-cough." 

"Wicked,  careless  lady!  They  weren't  crackers. 
You  gave  him  dog-biscuit  by  mistake  and  he  barked 
himself  to  death." 

Mrs.  Lee  shook  a  stern  forefinger  at  her  irreverent 
guest. 

"You  say  shocking  things.  What  I  mean  to  show 
by  my  little  anecdote  is  that  Jack  .  .  ,  well 
.  .  .  that  was,  in  general,  Jack's  attitude  toward 
Roseborough." 

Rosamond  burst  out  laughing. 

"His  attitude .f*  A  barefoot  kick  over  the  back 
fence?     Oh,  Mrs.  Lee!" 

"How  very  naughty  you  are  this  morning!  To 
twist  my  words  so!  I  shall  always  maintain  that  it 
was  shyness  which  made  Jack  avoid  all  intimacy 
with  those  who  would  have  received  him  for  my 
husband's  sake.  They  did  know,  later,  that  he  had 
left  the  college  abruptly,  just  because  the  desire  to 
wander  was  so  strong  in  him;  and  that,  too,  after 
Professor  Lee  had  succeeded  in  having  him  ap- 
pointed    to    teach    minor    subjects.      They    were 


66        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

most  indignant — even  those  who  did  not  know  him  at 
all." 

"They  might  have  left  it  to  Professor  Lee  and  to 
you  to  be  indignant." 

**0h!  but  you  see,  in  a  matter  of  that  kind  the 
communal  spirit  of  Roseborough  was  affronted. 
And,  alas,  it  will  be  remembered.  All  that  must  be 
overcome,  and  Roseborough  must  take  him  to  its 
heart.     How  shall  it  be  managed?" 

To  manage  the  communal  spirit  of  sensitive  Rose- 
borough was  no  light  undertaking.  Old  head  and 
young  head  pondered  in  silence. 

"If  they  could  come  together  in  some  wholly 
unexpected  way,  without  personalities,  and  not  as 
Roseborough  and  Jack  Falcon,  who  shook  the  dust 
of  Roseborough  from  his  feet  sixteen  years  ago! 
If  only  they  could  meet  under  other  identities  and, 
having  no  memories,  each  immediately  find  the  other's 
true  self!" 

"Like  a  fairy  prince  and  a  fairy  kingdom.  Oh, 
yes,  that  would  be  lovely.  But, "  the  gay,  mocking 
light  danced  within  her  eyes  again,  "even  if  life  is 
*  beautifully  arranged,'  it  is  not  so  beautifully  ar- 
ranged as  all  that!" 

"What  would  you  suggest?" 

"Well,  I  think  that — since  he  cant  come  as  a  fairy 
prince  and  discover  Roseborough's  true  nature  and, 
in  turn,  be  discovered   as  a  human  symbol  of  all 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        67 

Roseborough's  day-dreams — ^which  is  what  you  would 
like,  you  writer  of  fairy  tales" — (she  paused,  with 
wrinkled  brow  and  pursed  Hps)  "I  think  you  will 
have  to  make  it  the  very  opposite  of  all  that,  and  lay 
stress  on  the  fact  that  this  returning  wanderer  is 
the  very  same  Jack  Falcon  who  did  run  away,  but 
who  has  now  come  back  to  dear  old  Roseborough 
with  bells  on,  and  all  of  them  ringing!  And  then 
Roseborough  will  be  beside  itself  with  delight  at 
the  opportunity  of  welcoming  home  its  distinguished 
prodigal  son.  Emphasize  the  point  that  he  has 
deserted  kings'  palaces  for  Roseborough  and  they 
will  all  turn  out  to  greet  him." 

"Yes!  Yes!  You're  right.  Roseborough  would 
enjoy  that  view." 

**How  will  he  come?" 

"By  the  morning  train  to  Trenton  Waters.  I 
know  he  will  want  to  walk  home  from  there — the  old 
walk  he  loved — down  the  river  path.  He  should 
arrive  between  ten  and  eleven,  easily.  What  do  you 
think  of  this.f*  To  gather  all  our  dear  friends  here 
to  meet  him,  at  a  sort  of  informal  breakfast  ? " 

Rosamond  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  knew  you'd  think  of  something  clever 
in  a  moment!  Make  it  one  of  those  breakfast-lunch 
affairs  with  delicious  cold  things  to  eat,  and  have  it 
set  out  in  the  garden  in  a  semicircle  about  the  well, 
so   that   the    big  tree   will   shade   them    all.     Mrs. 


68        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Greenup  can  do  all  the  cooking  for  it  this  afternoon. 
I  will  run  home  and  telephone  her  that  you  want  her. 
And  do  let  me  bring  over  enough  of  that  old  Mearely 
damask  to  cover  the  tables." 

"Yes — yes.  I  shall  be  so  grateful  for  everything. 
Oh,  dear!  I  never  was  in  such  a  flutter!  I  do  believe 
that  I  never,  never  was  in  such  a  flutter!  How  shall 
I  let  them  all  know?" 

"I  will  telephone  to  all  those  who  have  telephones. 
And — oh!  a  splendid  idea!  We  will  ask  Mrs. 
Witherby  to  drive  about  to  those  who  have  no  tele- 
phones, and  ask  them  to  come.  Then  she  will  feel 
that  it  is  really  she  who  is  arranging  everything,  and 
that  will  help  tremendously." 

"Yes,  yes — dear  Mrs.  Witherby.  In  a  sense,  her 
nature  epitomizes  our  sensitive  little  town.  One 
must  not  take  it  by  surprise — that  is,  not  deliber- 
ately. How  fortunate  that  dear  Jack  has  given  me 
at  least  a  day's  leeway!  If  he  had  walked  in  on  me 
to-morrow,  without  notice,  I  doubt  whether  I  could 
ever  have  truly  convinced  them  that  I  had  not 
known  of  his  coming  and  kept  the  secret  from  them 
perhaps  for  weeks.  Quite  innocently  I  might  have 
caused  discord  in  Roseborough ! " 

"I  think  it  would  be  nice  for  you  to  come  to  Villa 
Rose  this  evening  for  an  hour.  Now,  don't  shake 
your  head,  I  know  you  go  to  bed  when  the  first  star 
peeps  out.     Some  of  us  will  bring  you  home  at  eight. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        69 

if  you  like.  This  is  my  idea,  and  it  is  a  very  good 
one.  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Witherby  to  come  over  with 
Corinne  and  Mabel  for  a  round  or  two  of  cards  with 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wells — and  Judge  Giffen  and  Mr. 
Andrews.  Wilton  will  come,  too,  Just  those  few — 
oh,  yes,  and  Dr.  Frei  also;  he  can  play  for  us.  I  can 
say  that  I  wanted  a  few  friends  about  me  this  evening 
since  my  sister  has  disappointed  me.  That  will  seem 
very  natural  to  them.  And  you  can  take  the  occa- 
sion, just  at  the  right  moment,  to  talk  about  Mr. 
Falcon  and  to  tell  about  the  book  and  the  royal 
person — all  in  that  unselfish,  tactful  way  of  yours. 
They  will  all  be  pleased,  and  Mrs.  Witherby  will 
set  the  pace  for  Roseborough.  Nobody  dares  gainsay 
her." 

"How  thoughtful  you  are!  My  dear,  you  have 
forgotten  nothing.  It  is  really  you  who  will  have 
made  my  Jack's  homecoming  a  success.  And  you 
have  just  called  me  unselfish!  The  word  belongs  to 
you,  dear." 

"No,  Vm  not.  Tm  not!  I'm — I'm  jealous." 
Suddenly  her  eyes  misted  and  her  Hp  quivered. 
Protest,  passionate  and  clamorous,  surged  through 
her  and  out  at  her  trembling  mouth.  "Oh!  must  / 
wait  till  I  am  seventy  to  have  a  real,  Wonderful  Day? 
Nothing — nothing  but  make-believe." 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Rosamond's  fingers  tightened  on  the  hand  which 


70        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

had  gently  taken  hers.  She  turned  almost  fiercely 
upon  Mrs.  Lee  as  if  she  challenged  fate,  or  an  enemy, 
in  this  benign  old  lady  who  was  regarding  her  now 
with  some  perturbation. 

"Will  nobody  ever  come  to  me  till  Tm  old — old — 
old?" 

"Will  nobody  ever  come  to  you.?"  Mrs.  Lee  re- 
peated, puzzling. 

Tragedy  rushed  on,  interrupting  her. 

"This  is  my  Wonderful  Day — my  only,  one.  Won- 
derful Day.  And  somebody  should  come — he  should 
come     .     .     ." 

"He?     Oh,  you  mean  Jack." 

"I  dorit  !  I  dare  say  he's  nice — a  thoroughly  good 
man.  Fm  glad  that  you're  glad,  and  all  that.  But 
Vm  not  glad!  No,  Fm  not!  I  think  it's  an  outrage. 
The  gray,  the  bald,  the  whiskered!  Roseborough  is 
full  of  them  already.  Another  of  those  is  an  out- 
rage!" 

"My — dear — child!     What  is  an  outrage?" 

"That  another  oldish  man  is  coming  to  Rose- 
borough!  I  want  a  fairy  prince — or  a  beggar — or  a 
tramp — if  only  he  is  young  !  He  can  come  to  the 
back  door  in  bare  feet  and  fustian,  or  in  rags  and 
patches.  I  shan't  mind  what  he  wears  or  how  empty 
his  pockets  are,  if  only  he  is  young — young — and  can 
laugh  out  loud  and  say  *  Good-morning,  Rosamond!" 

"My — dear!     You  go  so  fast;  and  tears  and  laugh- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        71 

ter  follow  each  other  so  rapidly  that  I  am  all  in  a 
whirl.     But  if  you  think  my  Jack     .     .     ." 

Rosamond  broke  in  impetuously: 

"Do  you  hear  that?  Ding — dong,  ding — dong. 
It  is  eleven  o'clock  and  nearly  half  my  only  Wonderful 
Day  has  passed  already!  I  shall  run  away  now  and 
do  all  that  I  have  promised — telephones,  cakes,  Hnen, 
Witherby,  everything!  But  every  moment  of  the 
time  I  shall  be  saying  in  my  heart:  *It  is  an  outrage 
that  another  gray,  bald,  whiskered,  middle-aged, 
prosy  old  man  is  coming  to  Roseborough!  It  is  an 
outrage!'     .     .     .     Why  couldnt  he  he  young  ?" 

Before  Mrs.  Lee  could  gather  herself  into  compo- 
sure after  a  sudden  violent  hug  and  as  sudden  and 
violent  a  release,  her  mercurial  friend  was  dashing 
through  the  gateway  into  the  grounds  of  Villa  Rose. 

Mrs.  Lee  sat  down  and  gave  herself  up  to  reflection. 

"*A  gray — bald — ^whiskered — outrage!'  Is  that 
what  she  said?  Dear,  dear.  What  can  have  given 
her  the  notion  that  Jack  .  .  .  ?"  She  mur- 
mured. **To  be  sure  I  did  say  that  some  of  our  boys 
are  past  middle  Hfe  now,  but  I'm  sure  I  didn't  say 
that  Jack  .  .  ."  [She  broke  off  her  musing  to 
pat  her  sooty  kitten  smartly.  "No,  no!  naughty 
kitty!  You  are  not  to  scratch  the  table  legs!'*] 
"Such  a  rebel  cry  for  youth!  Nay,  it  was  more; 
it  was  an  unashamed  cry  for  a  young  man!  Yet 
we  all  thought  hers  such  a  wonderful  marriage  for  a 


72        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

farm  girl.  But  perhaps  it  wasn't,  after  all.  Do 
those  who  live  by  the  soil  need  the  cling  of  the  earth 
in  all  vital  things.?  Why  there!  what  a  mate  she 
might  have  made  for  my  Jack  if    .     .     .     ." 

Her  perplexed  expression  changed  suddenly  into  a 
glow  and  a  smile  as  if  her  questioning  thoughts  had 
accidentally  discovered  something  so  unexpected 
that  she  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  it. 

"If?  Why,  there  is  no  *if'!  She  is  quite  free! 
It  may  be  difficult  for  Roseborough  to  believe  that 
its  Hibbert  Mearely  has  really  passed  away  from  it 
to  a  better  place — for,  of  course,  it  seems  almost  dis- 
loyal to  suggest  that  even  heaven  is  a  better  place 
than  Roseborough — but  the  truth  remains  that 
Hibbert  Mearely  has  gone.'''  After  contemplating 
this  calamitous  but  none-the-less  statistical  fact, 
she  added,  **And  it  would  almost  seem  as  if  that 
April-hearted  child  he  married  realizes  it  and  is" — 
she  cast  about  for  a  word  and  presently  decided  upon 
— "resigned." 


CHAPTER  VII 

DING-DONG. 
The  last  stroke  of  eleven  drummed  softly 
through  the  thick  leafage  of  the  orchard.  Rosamond 
sped  down  the  path,  as  sure-footed  as  if  she  wore  no 
other  heels,  or  soles  either,  than  the  ones  she  had 
come  into  the  world  with,  and  by  which  Mother 
Earth  had  held  little  Rosamond  Cort  of  the  Poplars 
Vale  farm  in  close  acquaintance  until  the  fancy 
butter-pats  had  reduced  poverty  and  inspired  ambi- 
tion. 

She  executed  faithfully  the  commissions  she  had 
given  herself.  After  having  entranced  "Dollop's 
Drugs  "  via  telephone,  by  sending  him  to  inform  Bella 
Greenup — the  lady  of  his  heart — that  her  cuHnary 
art  was  in  requisition,  she  called  for  the  number  of 
that  important  gentlewoman,  whose  nature — as  Mrs. 
Lee  had  said — epitomized  Roseborough. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Witherby." 

"Who  is  it.?  Oh,  of  course;  it  is  Mrs.  Mearely." 
The  answer  came  back  in  rather  high  accents  and 
the  over-emphasized  impressiveness  that  commonly 
garnishes  the  slim  utterances  of  self-importance. 
"I  was  saying  to  Corinne  not  five  minutes  ago — 

73 


74        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

actually,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mearely,  not  five  minutes 
ago,  or  ten  at  the  most — *I  think  I  shall  drive  round 
to  Mrs.  Mearely's  this  afternoon.'  Yes!  that  is 
exactly  what  I  said  to  Corinne  not  five  moments 
ago." 

"How — er — remarkable!  Then  it  is  fortunate 
I  rang  up;  because  I  shall  be  out  all  afternoon  and 
would  be  so  disappointed  if  I  returned  to  find  that 
I  had  missed  you." 

"Indeed.?     Where  are  you  going?" 
"Ah!  you  may  well  ask  what  I  am  going  to  do." 
"What.?     What.?    A  secret.?     (Be  quiet.  Central, 
Vm  talking.) " 

"A  beautiful  secret,   but   Fm  going  to  tell  you 
about  it  now.     It  is  Mrs.  Lee's  secret  and  she  has 
asked  me  to  let  you  know  of  it  first.     If  she  had  a 
telephone  she  would  be  telling  you  about  it  now  her- 
self.    However,  she  said  that  she  felt  sure  you  would 
allow  me  to  be  her  messenger." 
"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mearely!" 
"One  of  Professor  Lee's  old  pupils — oh,  of  years 
ago — is    coming    back    to    Roseborough    to-morrow 
morning.     Yes.     Oh,  very  unexpected.     A  tremen- 
dous surprise!     And  Mrs.  Lee  is  inviting  you  and 
Roseborough  to  breakfast  at  eleven  to-morrow  in 
her  garden  to  help  her  welcome  the  prodigal  home." 
"Oh!     How  exciting!     But  who  is  he?" 
"His  name  is  Falcon — ^Jack  Falcon." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        75 

"Oh!  no  one  /  ever  knew,  evidently.  Jack  Fal- 
con?" 

"Yes,  Falcon  is  the  name — one  of  them;  the  other, 
of  course,  being  Jack." 

"Falcon.? — Jack?  Stop!"  (dramatically — as  if 
Mrs.  Mearely  were  running  from  the  instrument  at 
the  other  end.)  "Isn't  that  the  man  who  literally 
decamped  from  Roseborough  years  ago?" 

["Waiting?"  Maria  Potts,  the  Central,  always 
intoned  her  official  query  at  brief  intervals  through 
Mrs.  Witherby's  telephonic  monologues  and  de- 
lighted to  cut  her  off,  which  she  always  did,  as  soon  as 
the  conversation  ceased  to  interest  Miss  Potts  her- 
self.] 

"Yes — er — that  is — I  understand  he  did  leave 
Roseborough  some  years  ago,"     Rosamond  answered. 

"Falcon?  Yes.  I'm  sure  that  is  the  name.  We 
never  encouraged  the  Lees  to  talk  about  him  after 
he  went  away,  though  they,  no  doubt,  would  have 
liked  to  make  us  believe  he  was  doing  well.  They 
were  idiotic  about  him  when  he  was  here.  (Be 
quiet.  Central!)  How  extraordinary  of  Mrs.  Lee 
to  be  giving  a  breakfast  to  that  person!  While  he 
lived  in  Roseborough,  he  ignored  Roseborough;  and 
he  ran  away  from  it  just  as  soon  as  ever  he  could." 

Rosamond  saw — or  heard,  rather — that  hers  was 
not  to  be  so  easy  a  task.  She  summoned  all  her 
diplomacy  and  continued: 


'■je        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"It  is  because  of  all  this  that  Mrs.  Lee  is  calling 
on  you  to  help  her.  She  feels — er — dependent  on 
your  generous  heart  to  mellow  the  heart  of  Rose- 
borough.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Falcon  has  come  to  a 
realization  of  what  Roseborough  and — er — inciden- 
tally, Professor  and  Mrs.  Lee — did  for  him." 

"Well!  I  should  hope  so,"  Mrs.  Witherby  broke 
in — it  was  always  difficult  for  her  to  remain  silent 
and  allow  another  to  talk — "but  I  certainly  doubt  it. 
Why,  I've  seen  him  climb  a  thorn  hedge  to  avoid 
meeting  me  on  the  highway.  I  have  always  made  it 
a  point  to  stop  the  boys,  especially  when  I  saw  them 
dawdling  about  the  countryside,  and  say  a  few 
pointed  words  to  them  about  wasted  opportunities. 
{Be  quiet.  Central !)  But  I  don't  believe  I  ever  once 
caught  that  uncouth,  hedge-leaping  youth.  I  can't 
imagine  him  coming  to  any  good." 

"Life — the  years — age,  you  know — have  greatly 
changed  him.  He  has  come  to  feel  that,  but  for  his 
training  here  in  Roseborough,  he  could  never  have 
made  his"  (she  elongated  the  next  two  words) 
"great  success." 

"What's  that?  What's  that  you  say?"  Mrs. 
Witherby  shook  the  instrument  in  her  excitement. 
"Success?     What  success V 

("Waiting?") 

("Be  quiet,  Central!  Be  quiet,  I  say!)  What 
success?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        jj 

"You  are  to  hear  all  about  that  this  evening.  I 
told  Mrs.  Lee  I  should  ask  you  and  the  girls  and  the 
Wellses,  the  Judge,  Mr.  Andrews,  and  Dr.  Frei — 
and  Wilton,  of  course — to  come  in  for  cards  and  a 
little  supper.  My  sister  has  disappointed  me.  So 
I  shall  be  all  alone,  unless  you  come.  I  shall  coax 
Mrs.  Lee  to  come,  too,  for  an  hour — though  she 
never  goes  anywhere  in  the  evening.  Then — ^with 
that  inimitable  tact  and  sympathy  of  yours — ^you  can 
lead  her  to  tell  us  all  about  Mr.  Falcon's  achieve- 
ments in  Europe." 

"In  Europe?     Good  gracious!" 

"Yes.  Of  course,  I  only  gathered  odds  and  ends 
about  it,  because  Mrs.  Lee  is  so  retiring  and  seemed 
to  feel  that  to  tell  of  the  old  pupil's  honours  might 
appear  vain  on  her  part     .     .     ." 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Lee!  Why  should  she  feel  so.^  If 
this  Mr.  Falcon  has  won  honours  abroad,  Mrs.  Lee 
can  hardly  consider  his  return  in  a  personal  light.  / 
consider  it  entirely  a  Rosehorough  matter." 

"There!  Do  you  know  I  felt  that  you  would.? 
I  told  Mrs.  Lee  so.     Isn't  that  remarkable?" 

"Did  you?  Did  you?  My  dear  Mrs.  Mearely! 
But  don't  you  yourself  consider  that  it  is  a  Rose- 
borough  matter?" 

"I  do.  Yes — I  do."  Her  tone  was  judicial. 
"However,  I  won't  say  anything  more  to  Mrs.  Lee 
about  that.     I  will  trust   it   all   to  your   tact   and 


78        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

sympathy,  when  you  see  her  this  evening,  here. 
Won't  that  be  best?"  Sweetly. 

"Oh,  entirely!  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  certainly!  Leave 
it  absolutely  in  my  hands.  Dear  Mrs.  Lee!  I  always 
know  exactly  how  to  manage  her.  In  fact,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Mearely,  I  sometimes  say  that  that  is  my  one 
great  gift;  {Will  you  be  quiet.  Central?) — er — my  one 
great  gift  is  managing  people,  especially  in  emer- 
gencies." 

"All  Roseborough  admits  that,  Mrs.  Witherby. 
It  is  a  wonderful  gift;  but  not  your  only  one,  Fm 
sure.  So  we  can  rely  on  you  this  afternoon  to  carry 
the  breakfast  invitation  to  those  of  our  dear  friends 
who  have  no  telephones?  That  means,  chiefly, 
the  Gleasons,  the  Montereys,  and  the  Pelham-Hews." 

"And  the  MacMillans,  and  the  Grahams." 

"Yes,  and  the  Wattses.  If  only  they  all  had  tele- 
phones, I  could  spare  you  the  trouble.  Really  they 
ought  to  have  them  put  in,  for  their  friends'  sakes." 

"Ah !  now,  there  I  dont  agree  with  you !  No,  I  really 
do  not  agree.  The  telephone  is  a  little  luxury, 
like  electric  lights — and — er — modern  plumbing — 
to  which  those  are  entitled  who  can  afford  them, 
and  whose  heads  will  not  be  turned  by  possessing 
them.  Like  ourselves,  dear  Mrs.  Mearely.  But 
what  is  permissible  luxury  in  one  home  is  wicked 
extravagance  in  another.  (Maria  Potts!  If  you 
say  'Waiting'  to  me  again  while  I   am  talking,  I 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r        79 

shall  report  you!)  If  persons  in  the  MacMillans' 
straitened  circumstances  were  to  have  a  telephone 
put  in,  I  think  all  Roseborough  would  resent  it. 
I  am  convinced  that  /  should !  And  when  one  knows 
— as  we  all  do — that  the  Gleasons  can  hardly  manage 
to  keep  their  boy  at  Charleroy  College!  As  for  the 
Pelham-Hews,  with  their  small  income  and  those 
seven  simpering  girls  on  their  hands!  Well,  I,  for 
one,  dare  not  imagine  what  all  Roseborough  would 
say  if  we  heard,  to-morrow,  that  they  were  piping 
water  to  the  second  floor — and  wallowing  in  enam- 
elled tubs!  No,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mearely.  In  the 
Witherby  home  a  stationary  bath-tub  is  a  refinement; 
in  the  Pelham-Hew  home  it  would  be  an  immorality." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Miss  Potts  deUberately 
disconnected  "Roseborough  one-eight"  from  "Rose- 
borough two-one"  and  turned  deaf  ears  to  the  latter's 
indignant  demand  for  "the  manager  at  Xrenton." 

Rosamond  came  to  the  door  sill  of  the  living-room 
again  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  breeze-stirred 
fragrance  which  enveloped  Villa  Rose  on  this  perfect 
midsummer  morning.     She  sighed. 

"Oh,  Roseborough,  couldn't  you  make  a  milady 
of  the  little  butter  girl  from  Poplars  without  making 
her — Milady  Prevaricator?  What  is  it — you,  there, 
Mr.  Golden  Sun,  who  sees  everything;  you,  shining 
old  heart-searcher,  tell  me — what  is  it  makes  so 
many  poor  humans  twist  and  trick  when  it  is  their 


8o        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

blessed  privilege  to  speak  the  plain  truth  ?  Did  you 
laugh  long  ago,  Mr.  Sun,  when  you  saw  the  little, 
barefoot  butter  girl  birched  for  telling  fibs? — and  did 
you  know  that  some  day  she  would  put  on  silk 
stockings  and  satin  shoes  and  have  to  learn  to  use 
something  called  *tact' — first,  because  the  rod  of  a 
certain  fine  gentleman's  sarcasm  was  merciless  to- 
ward any  feehng  that  frankly  revealed  itself,  and 
secondly,  because — marvel  of  marvels ! — most  people, 
it  seems,  prefer  deceit?  Heigh-ho!  How  the  old 
pool  in  the  south  meadow  is  shining  among  its  reeds 
at  this  very  moment!" 

She  laughed,  and  the  wistful  shadow  which  had 
darkened  her  eyes  disappeared. 

"At  any  rate,  IVe  managed  Mrs.  Witherby  so 
that  dear  Mrs.  Lee  can  continue  to  believe  in  the 
beneficent  spirit  of  Roseborough.  Roseborough  will 
open  its  arms  to  her  Jack  Falcon  instead  of  tearing 
off  his  hair — ^that  is,  if  he  still  has  hair.  B'r'r'r, 
but  I  am  a-weary  of  old  men!" 

She  gathered  up  her  breakfast  dishes,  and  took 
them  into  the  kitchen.  The  kitchen  closet  yielded  a 
blue-checked  all-over  apron  of  Amanda's.  Rosa- 
mond literally  dropped  herself  into  it  at  the  neck. 
She  pinned  it  up  in  front  so  that  she  could  not  fall 
over  it.  The  back  she  did  not  bother  about  but  let 
it  trail.  After  washing  the  dishes,  she  set  about  the 
cake-making.     This  was  not  so  simple  as  she  had 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        8i 

expected.  It  appeared  presently  that,  in  a  few  years 
of  miladying,  one  could  forget  even  such  native 
feminine  knowledge  as  pints,  pecks,  and  egg  calcula- 
tions. 

"This  is  absurd!"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly. 
"I  can't  have  forgotten!  Why,  I  made  much  better 
cakes  than  Mrs.  Greenup  does.  I  shall  have  to 
find  a  cook  book.'* 

A  thorough  search  of  every  shelf  and  drawer  in 
Amanda's  domain  yielded  naught  in  literature  but  a 
few  almanacs,  and  a  tract  entitled  "Howl,  Sodom!" 
This  last,  she  knew,  belonged  to  Jemima,  who  had 
surreptitiously  attended  a  revival  in  Trenton  Waters 
during  the  spring  and  had  been  roundly  scolded  for  it 
by  her  elder  sister,  for  whom  the  Church  of  her 
fathers  was  sufficient.  Mrs.  Mearely  surmised  that 
Jemima  had  hidden  this  leaflet  of  grace  in  the  clove 
pot  because  no  cranny  of  her  bedroom  was  safe  from 
Amanda's  prying. 

"Horrid  nonsense!"  She  dropped  it  into  the 
stove.  "There!  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  Howl 
Jemima  stuff  in  my  kitchen.  No  cook  book?  Of 
course,  not!  His  Friggets'  boast  that  they  never 
even  measure  anything,  because  they  are  such  born 
cooks!     What  shall  I  do?" 

She  spent  five  minutes  in  dark  despair.  Then  a 
light  broke  upon  her.  It  was  a  light  with  humour 
in  its  flash,  evidently,  for  she  giggled. 


82        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Now,  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  cake  recipe  in  the  old 
cook  book  written  by  that  Portuguese  woman, 
Countess  Lallia  of  Mountjoye,  who  catered  to  the 
Prince  of  Paradis  so  attractively  that  she  never 
lost  his  affection?" 

She  was  soon  rummaging  recklessly  among  the 
old  volumes  on  the  lowest  shelf  of  the  glassed  book- 
case. Each  book  or  collection  of  leaves  was  in  a 
leather  binding  and  bore  a  tag,  telling  its  name, 
date,  and  presumed  history  in  Mr.  Hibbert 
Mearely's  fine  flourish.  Memoirs,  missals  and  Latin 
parchments  of  all  sorts  and  sizes — some  said  to  have 
been  in  popes'  and  princes'  pockets — ^were  tumbled 
out  on  the  floor,  while  irreverent  Mrs.  Mearely 
hunted  for  information  on  practical  cakemaking 
to  serve  Mr.  Falcon's  palate. 

"Ah  ha!"  she  cried,  gleefully.  "Here  it  is!" 
She  scrutinized  the  tag  attached  to  some  sheets  of 
parchment  in  a  green  leather  binding  (stamped 
with  the  Mearely  crest).  The  parchment  bore 
characters  in  black  India  ink  and  each  page  was 
ornamented  by  a  coloured  margin  of  very  badly 
painted  fishes,  birds,  bunches  of  fruit,  and  other 
delicacies.  There  was  even  one  little  creature  on  a 
platter  which  may  have  represented  a  stuffed  suck- 
ling pig,  or  a  mulatto  baby  au  jus,  with  its  mouth 
pouting  with  prunes.  The  countess,  by  her  own 
confession,  had  wantonly  tossed  toxic  and  gaseous 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        83 

particles  together  and  then  dared  indigestion  to 
murder  love.  Most  of  her  gluttonous  recipes  bore 
this  introductory  note: — 

And  upon  thys  day,  beinge  of  ambitious  mynde  to 
pleasure  the  gracious  appetyte  of  milorde,  the  Prince  of 
Paradis  withe  delicate  dyshes  of  newe  raptures,  I  didde 
herewythe  devyse  and  prepare  and  with  myne  owne 
handes  styrre  the  essences  thereof,  thys — "puddynge," 
*' sauce,"  "souppe,*'  or  whatever  it  might  be. 

So  well  had  his  fair  one  pleasured,  devysed,  and 
styrred  to  feed  Dom  Paradis's  earthly  appetite  that 
it  was  easy  to  beheve  the  last  legend  of  their  love; 
namely,  that,  in  dying,  he  had  left  her  his  jewelled 
belt — no  doubt  as  a  grateful  remembrance  from  the 
princely  "tummy"  it  had  adorned  though  not  re- 
strained, and  which  she  had  kept  so  well  lined. 

"Contessa,  if  love  and  greed  kept  pace  in  your 
little  affair,  your  hearts  must  have  been  overflowing 
with  sweet  spices  and  goo;  for  you  smothered  your 
food  in  them.  I  think  a  plain,  boiled  potato  would 
have  been  a  chastening  experience  for  you  both." 

Rosamond  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  tailor  fashion, 
in  the  centre  of  a  scattered  ring  of  tagged  leather 
cases  and  books  of  all  sizes,  with  the  countess's 
illuminated  parchments  spread  on  her  knees.  She 
turned  several  pages  of  death-defying  sauces,  before 
she  came  upon  the  welcome  phrase  "I  didde  devyse  a 


84        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

cake" — or  "a  goodlie  heartes  cake" — as  Contessa 
Lallia  y  Poptu  de  Sillihofo  Sanza  Mountjoye  pre- 
ferred to  describe  it. 
Wrote  the  Countess: 

On  thys  day,  beinge  the  same  of  a  most  warme  myd- 
summere  day,  I  dydde  persuade  milorde  husbande  to 
waite  upon  his  highness  and  so  to  goe  forthe  and  dydde 
sende  unto  milorde  the  Prince  of  Paradis,  who  is  in  alle 
weatheres  mye  beloved  kinsmanne  and  friende  in  exile, 
to  come  unto  me  to  taste  of  a  cake     .     .     . 

**0h,  you  wasteful  woman,  to  use  all  those  eggs!" 
exclaimed  Rosamond,  in  reading  the  Hst  of  ingredi- 
ents. **You  must  have  passed  over  the  first-born 
of  the  hen  houses  of  Mountjoye  like  the  destroying 
angel  over  the  Egyptians.  A  piece  of  butter  as 
big  as  milord's  fist,  she  says;  that  is,  half  to  three 
quarters  of  a  pound.  Figs,  raisins — so  *thatte  they 
dydde  cover  mye  two  handes.'  That's  the  way 
Amanda  measures — by  hand.  All  born  cooks  do. 
Contessa,  I  believe  this  is  the  original  Lady  Baltimore 
cake — except  that  it  is  ever  so  much  richer,  and 
peppered  with  spice  and  ground  perfumes,  which  I 
shall  omit  with  the  *oil  of  beaten  milk,'  which  is 
merely  melted  butter.  No  wonder  he  died,  your 
Dom  Paradis.  You  oiled  his  goings  for  him,  and 
slid  him  down  where  all  breakers  of  the  command- 
ments go.  You  were  not  only  a  Portuguese,  you 
were  a  Portu-grease." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        85 

She  read  on  and  presently  repeated  the  lines  aloud 
with  little  murmurs  of  laughter. 

Thys  cake  dydde  so  pleasure  mye  deare  Dom  Paradis 
thatte  he  therewythe  expressed  a  greate  love  for  mye 
person;  whych  he  dydde  declare  to  be  beauteouse  beyonde 
compare,  and  manny  tymes  dydde  kysse  me,  and  wysh 
milorde  the  Earl  myght  nevere  return,  and  dydde  sud- 
denlye  falle  into  a  greate  jealousie,  and  beseech  me  to 
vowe  thatte  I  would  no  cakes  make  for  Mountjoye,  and 
dydde  aske  and  importune  me  to  saye  if  he  be  stille  so 
younge  and  handsome  thatte  I  do  love  him,  I  belnge 
twentie  yeares  youngere  than  milorde  Dom  Paradis. 
Then  sayde  I  thatte  I  would  bathe  and  dresse  mye  hearte 
for  hys  delights,  but  at  this  he  cryde  oute  and  would  not 
and — ^when  he  had  eaten  alle  my  love-cake — Mountjoye 
dydde  enter. 

"Twenty  years  younger!  and  was  INlountjoye  old, 
too?  Poor  Contessa!  You  and  I  both,  it  seems, 
must  cater — and  caker — for  old  men.  Oh,  Mr. 
Falcon,  when  you  bite  into  my  modified  edition  of 
the  Contessa's  *  love-cake,'  I  pray  you,  fall  not  in 
love  with  me!" 

When  she  had  popped  her  cake  into  the  oven, 
tossed  off  Amanda's  apron,  and  stepped  outside  to 
cool  her  cheeks  in  the  breeze,  the  sun  stood  directly 
over  the  rose  garden  and  twelve  o'clock  was  ringing 
from  the  tower  by  the  river. 

"Noon!  half  my  Wonderful  Day  has  gone,  and  I 


86        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

haven't  even  set  out  on  the  adventures  I  planned 
at  nine."  She  thought  this  over  for  a  few  moments, 
and  concluded  that,  so  far  as  this  morning  was 
concerned,  it  had  been  a  question  of  choice  between 
her  own  day  and  Mrs.  Lee's,  and  that  Mrs.  Lee's  had 
won  because  it  was  actual — one  of  age's  realities — 
and  her  own  was  only  a  dream.  Then,  reversing 
all  this  wisdom,  she  added  hopefully,  "But  I  still 
have  this  afternoon!" 

She  walked  across  the  garden  and  leaned  her  elbows 
on  the  rough  stone  wall  that  formed  Villa  Rose's 
front  defense.  Portulacca  and  canary  creeper  ran 
over  the  stone  displaying  their  bright  green  foliage 
and  little  blossoms  attractively  against  the  granite 
gray.  Farther  along,  the  wall  rose  to  a  man's  height 
and  ragged  robins  and  rose  ramblers  wantoned  over 
it  merrily,  always  a-hum  and  a-twitter  with  bees  and 
wrens. 

"That  looks  like  Mr.  Andrews,"  she  thought,  sur- 
veying a  small  cart,  drawn  by  a  fat,  stocky,  black 
pony  wending  upward.  The  road  was  steep  and 
one  could  not  keep  travellers  in  sight  for  long  at  a 
time.  She  decided  to  wait  until  he  drew  near,  in 
order  to  give  him  his  invitation  for  the  evening  card 
game. 

Forgetting  her  lilac-bud  silk  and  her  Irish  lace 
petticoat;  forgetting  the  blush  from  the  cook  stove, 
which  still  mantled  her  modest  brow,  forgetting  that 


GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND ! 


87 


the  strains  of  the  gay  minuet  issuing  from  her  lips, 
with  the  words  of  salutation  to  herself,  were  being 
carried  to  the  ears  of  the  gentleman  in  the  cart;  all 
innocently,  she  waited. 

It  was  important  that  he  should  not  pass  without 
seeing  her,  since  he  could  save  her  the  trouble  and 
delay  of  telephoning  to  several  of  the  desired  break- 
fast guests  whom  he  would  see  on  the  round  of  his 
duties.  Mr.  Andrews  was  the  treasurer  of  the 
Widowers'  Mite  Society  of  St.  Jephtha's,  which  paid 
the  sexton's  salary,  and  this  was  his  day  for  collecting 
from  his  associates.  Mrs.  Mearely,  preferring  to 
arrest  attention  by  a  gesture  rather  than  by  a  shout, 
plucked  a  rose-bud  from  the  bush  nearest  her,  and 
threw  it;  well  aimed,  it  struck  the  brim  of  the  gen- 
tleman's straw  hat  and  dropped  into  the  cart  in 
front  of  him.  He  looked  up,  startled,  and  heard  a 
glad  young  voice  chanting: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Andrews!     I  am  waiting  for  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  ALBERT  ANDREWS  was  a  young  man,  ac- 
cording to  Roseborough  time,  being  now  in  his 
forty-second  year;  and  he  was  a  widower.  Although 
he  was  not  rich  he  was  fairly  "  comfortable."  He  was 
not  brilliant,  but  his  character  was  exemplary.  If  he 
was  somewhat  deliberate — one  need  not  say  pompous 
— of  utterance,  this  was  altogether  becoming  in  a 
gentleman  who  had  twice  been  elected  tax  collector, 
and,  once,  president  of  the  Orphans'  Fund  Board. 
He  was  not  handsome,  but  Roseborough  ladies 
considered  him  "personable" — ^just  as  they  had 
considered  Hibbert  Mearely  distingue  and  as  they 
did  consider  Judge  Giffen  imposing,  Wilton 
Howard  magnetic,  and  Dr.  Frei  "so  foreign  and  so 
elegant."  In  height,  width,  weight,  colouring,  and 
expression,  he  was  medium;  on  the  top  of  his  head 
he  was  less  than  that,  because  his  hair  there  was  thin, 
but  he  devoted  careful  attention  to  it  and,  as  yet, 
the  shining,  pinky  surface,  lurking  amid  the  tan- 
coloured  strands,  was  screened.  His  eyes  were 
prominently  set,  pale  and  placid.  He  had  been 
"alone"  for  six  years;  but,  during  the  last  two,  he 
had  been  slowly  coming  to  a  momentous  decision. 

88 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"        89 

In  fact,  he  had  already  arrived  at  it.  He  had  decided 
to  propose  to  Hibbert  Mearely's  widow. 

With  this  canny  and  romantic  aim  in  view,  he  had 
recently  visited  a  millinery  and  tub  frocks  shop  in 
Trenton,  kept  by  a  woman  who  owed  his  mother 
for  favours  bestowed  on  her  in  poorer  days,  and  had 
allowed  her  to  settle  the  score,  so  to  speak,  by  inform- 
ing him  as  to  the  etiquette  involved. 

"It's  all  but  four  years  sence  the  departed  did  so," 
Mrs.  Bunny  had  said,  after  ponderous  consideration, 
"and  you  say  her  perferred  raiment  seems  to  be  of  a 
paHsh  hue  with  black  ribbons?  That's  lavender, 
an'  no  question  'tall  about  it.  I'd  say,  Mr.  Albert, 
after  a'most  a  lifetime  of  expeer'ence  in  dressin'  the 
genteel  sets,  that — so  long  as  the  black  ribbons  in- 
dures — silence  must  be  your  potion.  (It  is  conceiv- 
able that  she  meant  "portion.")  Even  if  she  was  to 
put  on  white  or  lavender  streamers,  you  couldn't 
pop  the  question,  but  only  hint,  an'  trim  your  sub- 
tile speech  with  looks  an'  gestures.  If  she  was  to  step 
out  afore  you  in  colours,  it  would  be  good  ettikay  to 
fall  on  your  knees  an'  oflFer  your  name  an'  pertection. 
(Of  course,"  she  amended  parenthetically,  "your 
name  ain't  nothing  to  the  Mearely  name;  an' 
I  don't  know  how  much  pertection  you'd  be  ekal 
to  in  a  pinch — ^you  never  havin'  played  no  basket- 
ball, nor  nothing  but  whist — but  there's  no  require- 
mints  to  tell  her  so.)     So  long  as  she's  got  a  speck  of 


90        *' GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

mournin'  onto  her,  do  it  rev'rence  an'  utter  no  ardint 
word.  Bestow  on  her  sighs  an'  looks  of  yearnin'; 
an'  you  can  converse,  offhand,  concernin'  wedded 
love  an'  flowers  that  never  fadeth,  an'  the  moon, 
an'  all  such  sent'mints — an'" — she  wound  up,  im- 
pressively— *' hover,  Mr.  Albert,  hover.'' 

This  last  bit  of  advice  he  had  obeyed  as  consis- 
tently as  was  possible  to  a  man  by  nature  meek  and 
unobtrusive — he  had  hovered.  He  had,  also,  in  a 
measure,  overcome  his  temperamental  reserve  through 
the  private  practice  of  amorous  facial  expression 
in  the  mirror  after  shaving. 

Mr.  Albert  Andrews,  Hke  the  majority  of  his  sex, 
was  practically  colour-blind.  He  knew  black  and 
white,  red,  yellow,  blue,  and  green  in  their  violent 
tints.  A  cobalt  blue,  for  instance,  a  mustard  yellow 
or  a  bright  bottle-green,  he  could  immediately  iden- 
tify. Other  shades,  such  as  tan,  champagne,  lilac- 
bud,  lavender,  mauve,  cadet  and  alice  blues,  pale 
pinks,  straw-yellows,  and  deHcate  grass-stain  and 
reseda  greens,  he  called  gray.  He  knew  gray  also 
to  be  a  colour;  because  he  himself — as  well  as  other 
Roseborough  gentlemen  of  quality,  who  were  nicely 
apparelled — favoured  it  in  summer. 

"Gray,"  he  had  answered  unhesitatingly  in  re- 
sponse to  Mrs.  Bunny's  question  as  to  what  Mrs. 
Mearely  was  wearing;  "Gray  with  a  dark  pattern 
in  it,  and  black  ribbons." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       91 

Her  expert  knowledge  immediately  translated  this 
correctly.     "Not  gray,  Mr.  Albert;  lavender'' 

"Ah!"  with  heavy  facetiousness,  "when  ladies 
wear  it  they  call  it  lavender?  The  sentimental 
dears!     So  that  is  lavender.     Well.     Well." 

Mrs.  Bunny  had  thereupon  led  him  to  the  ribbon 
counter  and  endeavoured  to  teach  him  to  distinguish 
between  pastels. 

"For,"  said  she,  "Mrs.  Mearely,  being  that  kind 
of  a  brownish  blonde,  an'  not  pure  goldin  nor  yet 
flaxin,  she'll  not  take  to  loud  shades.  An',  Mr. 
Albert,  if  you  don't  know  a  pale  turkoy  blue,  nor  a 
silver  green  nor  a  fawn,  from  a  lavender,  how'U 
you  know  if  the  time's  come  to  cease  your  dumb 
yearnin'  and  bust  out?" 

Earnestly  seeking  to  profit  by  Mrs.  Bunny's  in- 
structions, he  had  carefully  scanned,  several  times 
daily,  the  little  ribbon  and  chifFon  samples  she  had 
snipped  from  the  reels  and  labelled  for  him.  Even 
without  them  in  his  hand,  he  beUeved  he  should  feel  a 
degree  of  confidence  if  he  were  to  encounter  his 
charmer  without  her  black  streamers  and  decked  in  a 
"pastel." 

He  looked  up  now  and  saw  her — a  sight  for  rapture, 
even  to  the  eyes  of  an  unimaginative  widower  of 
forty-two,  and  indeterminate  as  to  colours.  He  saw 
that  the  customary  dark  garniture  was  not  there. 
He   saw   the   white    lace    bodice    and    sleeves,    the 


92        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

blushing,  radiant  face,  the  rosy  lips,  humming  softly 
and  mellifluously.  He  saw  the  silk  folds  of  shoulder- 
drape  and  girdle,  where  the  sun  cast  a  silvery  sheen 
over  the  material's  hue. 

What  was  that  hue?  Poor  man,  his  heart  leaped 
and  fell  before  the  dooming  fact  that  his  mind — 
forgetful  of  its  recent  culture  in  this  subject — had 
automatically  registered  the  word,  "gray."  To  find 
his  intellect  immediately  correcting  its  stumbling 
with  "lavender"  was  no  consolation.  Here,  seem- 
ingly,, was  his  great  opportunity;  it  was  calling  to 
him,  throwing  coquettish  flowerets,  and  chanting: 
"I  am  waiting  for  you" — yet,  alas,  he  knew  not 
whether  the  tint  of  that  sun-silvered,  silken  girdle 
enjoined  upon  him  a  silence  to  "do  it  rev'rence" 
or  coyly  urged  him  to  "bust  out." 

Drops  of  moisture  stood  upon  his  brow,  his  hands 
became  clammy,  as  he  drew  the  pony  up  to  the  wall 
of  Villa  Rose  garden.  Mutely  he  invoked  the  spirit 
of  Mrs.  Bunny. 

"Mrs.  Mearely!" 

"Yes,"  she  laughed  back  at  him,  cheerily. 
"Wasn't  that  a  lucky  shot.?     It  hit  you,  didn't  it?" 

"Mrs.  Mearely!"     (What  was  that  colour?) 

"You'd  better  put  your  hat  on  again,  to  shade  your 
eyes  from  the  sun,"  she  cautioned,  for  Mr.  Albert 
Andrews's  pale,  prominent  optics  were  almost  popping 
out  of  their  sockets. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       93 

"Mrs.  Mearely!"  (Surely  that  tint  was  blue? 
Now  that  she  turned,  and  her  body  shadowed  it 
from  the  sun's  rays,  it  certainly  looked  as  blue  as 
Mrs.  Bunny's  inch  of  baby  ribbon.) 

"I  want  to  ask  all  sorts  of  favours  of  you,  Mr. 
Andrews."  She  paused,  with  her  pretty  head  perked 
on  one  side.  It  was  her  fashion  to  request  favours 
with  this  little  flirt  and  smile  which  suggested,  with 
guileless  conceit,  that  to  serve  any  one  so  beautiful 
and  so  young  was  payment  enough  and  to  spare  for 
any  man  in  Roseborough.  Little  did  she  remember 
at  this  moment,  however,  the  results  of  that  same 
perking  from  her  father's  farm  gate,  when  Hibbert 
Mearely  had  asked  her  to  tell  him  if  he  had,  or  had 
not,  taken  the  wrong  turning  at  the  bridge. 

"Mrs.  Mearely!"  (He  would  dare  to  believe 
it  blue.     He  would  act  as  if  it  were  blue!) 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the  poor  man? 
He'll  be  as  red  as  a  beanflower  in  a  minute,"  ran 
through  her  mind.  Aloud  she  said:  "I  know  you  are 
making  your  collecting  rounds  and  you  will  pass 
Dr.  Wells's  and  Mr.  Howard's  and  also  Judge  Giffen's. 
Will  you  deliver  a  message  at  each  house  for  me?" 

A  gulp  was  the  only  reply,  for  a  second  or  two. 
It  meant  that  Mr.  Andrews  was  done  with  "dumb 
yearnin'."     (The  dress  was,  unquestionably,  blue.) 

"Mrs.  Mearely!  I  beg  you  to  listen  to  what  I 
am  about  to  say."     The  words  tumbled  out  pell-mell. 


94        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

now  that  he  knew  blue  for  what  it  was;  in  Mrs. 
Bunny's  phrase,  they  *'bust  out."  "I  will  take  any 
message  of  yours,  every  message,  wherever  and 
whither  you  may  send  it.  I  shall  be  honoured — 
nay,  more,  pleased." 

Surely  she  could  not  mistake  such  ardour!  he  had 
declared  himself,  and  as  a  man  of  honour,  would 
stand  by  this  avowal.  He  waited  breathlessly  for 
her  answer. 

"Splendid!"  She  clapped  her  hands.  "Then 
you  shall  ask  the  Wellses  and  the  Judge  and  Wilton 
to  come  for  cards  this  evening.  Mrs.  Witherby  and 
her  daughter  and  niece  are  coming;  and  Mrs.  Lee, 
who  has  some  news  for  us  all.  You  will  come,  of 
course,  won't  you?     I  am  relying  on  you." 

(She  was  relying  on  him — in  blue!) 

"Mrs.  Mearely!" 

"Well,  then,  say  that  you  will,"  she  prompted, 
inwardly  provoked  by  what  she  regarded  as  a  stupid 
man's  more  than  usually  dense  mood,  and  remember- 
ing that  it  would  be  wise  to  peep  into  the  oven  to  see 
how  Dom  Paradis's  "goodlie  hearte's"  cake  was 
behaving  in  a  modern  cook  stove. 

He  removed  his  hat  again.     He  spoke  solemnly. 

"I  will,"  he  said — even  as  he  had  said  it,  thirteen 
years  ago,  at  St.  Jephtha's  altar. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Andrews.  Now  I 
must  run  along  in     ...     " 


"  GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND  I ''       95 

"    "Mrs.  Mearely!'^ 

"Yes?     Were  you  about  to  say  something? " 
(Was    he    about    to    say    something?     She    was 
leading  him  on — in  blue!) 

"Mrs.  Mearely!  I  have  said  it.  Mrs.  Mearely, 
did  you  understand  the  purport  of  what  I  said  to  you 
just  now?  *' 

"What  did  you  say  to  me  just  now,  Mr.  Andrews  ?" 
Such  smiles  leaning  to  him  over  the  low  wall; 
such  large  blue  eyes,  flecked  and  changing  from  grave 
to  gay;  and  behind  and  about  this  entrancing  jewel 
of  a  woman  her  opulent  setting  of  the  Villa  Rose 
estate!  He  grew  dizzy.  Her  dress  was  blue; 
and  she  was  eager  to  hear  him  repeat  the  declaration 
he  had  already  made  to  her!  This  could  mean  only 
one  thing,  he  was  convinced.  She  had  observed 
his  devotion  and  secretly  coveted  him.  She  had 
noticed  that  he  hovered  and  had  approved  his  brood- 
ing flutter.  In  short,  she  had  donned  that  blue 
satin  to  allure  him;  and  had  hung  her  charms  upon 
the  wall,  that  morning,  because  she  well  knew  he 
must  pass  by. 

Mr.  Albert  Andrews  was  the  average,  simple, 
masculine  creature,  making  up  for  other  deficiencies 
by  an  excellent  conceit  of  himself.  The  tradition  of 
his  sex — that  woman  is  the  pursuer,  because  she 
recognizes  the  superiority  of  the  male  and  wishes  to 
entrap  a  specimen  of  the  wonderful  species  for  her 


96        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

glory — comprised  the  major  part  of  Mr.  Andrews's 
knowledge  of  the  feminine.  He  had  not  learned 
more  during  his  marriage,  because  his  satisfied 
opacity  was  proof  against  all  attempts  to  instruct. 

It  was  to  him  wholly  natural  that  Rosamond 
Mearely — being,  for  all  her  beauty  and  wealth, 
only  a  woman  after  all  and  therefore  an  inferior — 
should  have  decided  to  entrain  him;  because,  for- 
sooth, he  was  a  man.  He  did  not  see  how  she  could 
have  chosen  better  in  all  Roseborough. 

Literally  he  rose  to  do  that  which  was  demanded 
of  him;  for  he  stood  up  in  his  cart  and  laid  hold  of 
the  wall  with  both  hands.  By  standing  on  tiptoe 
he  could  just  reach  the  ledge  near  where  her  two 
finely  turned  arms  rested. 

** Goodness  me!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  trace  of 
the  Poplars  Farm  in  her  accents.  "Suppose  your 
horse  walks  off  and  leaves  you  hanging  to  my  wall 
like — like  a  tom-cod  in  a  fish  market?" 

He  interruped  her. 

"Mrs.  Mearely!  I  said  just  now  that  I  would 
carry  any  message  of  yours  wherever  and  whither 
you  desire.  I  said  even  more.  I  said  that  I  would 
be  pleased  to  do  so.  I  meant  it.  I  mean  it  still.  Mrs. 
Mearely!  Can  I  tell  you — may  I  tell  you  .  .  ." 
He  gulped.  "Mrs.  Mearely  I  have  long — Mrs. 
Mearely!  I  have  often  thought  over  the  little 
sentiments  I  might  one  day  express  to  you.     That  is 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''        97 

to  say,  when  I  should  see  you  again  as  I  see  you  now, 
that  is  to  say,  without  the  black-edged  habiliments 
of  woe     .     .     ." 

"Oh,  my  frock?  I  see.  You  are  going  to  pay 
me  compliments." 

(She  was  asking  him  to  pay  her  compliments! 
She  was  making  it  easy  for  him!) 

He  beamed  at  her — the  eager,  engaging  young 
creature,  so  artful,  yet  artless,  too — the  pursuing 
feminine. 

"I  have  considered,  in  a  poetical  way,  what  I 
would  say  if  I  saw  you  first  in  something — er — green. 
Some  little  phrase  about  the  grass  and  verdant  inno- 
cence. Or,  in  pink.  I  had  that  thoroughly  out- 
lined, too;  because  we  thought,  Mrs.  Bunny  and  I, 
that  the  likeliest  hue  would  be  a  pastel  pink." 

Her  fair  white  forehead  puckered;  her  perfect 
eyebrows  lifted. 

"Mrs.  Bunny?  Pastel  pink?"  She  sought  en- 
lightenment. 

"One  moment.  I  would  then  have  Hkened  you  to 
a  rose  and  a  sea-shell,  both  chaste  similes  and  very 
pretty  conceits.  But  now  I  can  say  to  you,  that 
you  are  most  fair  in  this  colour  since  it  is  the  colour 
of  the  sky,  therefore — may  we  not  say? — (I  think 
we  may)  the  colour  of  heaven — and  of  my  birth- 
stone,  the  aquamarine,  and,  ah! — the  colour  of  your 
eyes." 


98        ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

"What?"     She  was  startled. 

"Blue  sky — that  is  to  say,  blue  heavens — blue 
birthstone,  blue  dress,  blue  eyes;  gown  and  eyes  a 
perfect  match     ..." 

"Mercy!  I  hope  not,"  she  burst  out  laughing. 
"Whatever  makes  you  think  this  frock  is  blue? 
Or  do  my  eyes  look  like  lavender  to  you?" 

Mr.  Andrews's  rather  loose  under  jaw  slipped  down, 
the  smiles  of  rapt  satisfaction  faded.  Slowly  he 
turned  a  purplish  red  that  passed  off  in  a  chill. 

"Mrs.  Mearely,"  he  asked  hoarsely.  "Did  you 
say  that  gown  is  1 — lavender?" 

She  shrieked  joyously.  Then,  taking  pity  on  his 
plainly  revealed  agony  of  mind,  tried  to  control  her 
laughter. 

"Yes.  At  least,  it  is  lilac;  but  they  are  much 
alike.     Lavender,  lilac     .     .     ." 

"Stop!"  he  gasped. 

"Mauve,  heliotrope,"  she  tipped  them  off  merrily 
on  her  digits.  "Amethyst."  She  crooked  her  little 
finger. 

"Don't,"  he  groaned. 

"Wood-violet."  She  waggled  the  thumb  of  her 
other  hand. 

"Lavender!"  He  sank  back  into  the  seat  of  the 
cart  like  a  stone  into  the  sea. 

"Or  lilac.  But  it  doesn't  match  my  eyes,  Mr. 
Andrews;  no,  really,  I  haven't  lavender  eyes." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       99 

She  found  his  error  too  entertaining  and,  ceasing 
her  kind  attempt  at  gravity,  she  bubbled  gaily. 

"Lavender,"  he  muttered.  He  thought  with 
gruelling  shame  of  how  he  had  "  bust  out,"  and  added : 
**I  have  been  indelicate." 

"Oh,  why  take  it  so  seriously?"  she  giggled.  "I'm 
not  offended.     Vm — I'm — laughing." 

He  could  hear  that  she  was! — but  the  ripples  of  her 
mirth  fell  balmless  upon  his  wound.  His  sober, 
orderly,  plodding  mind  was  in  a  perilous  whirl. 
She  had  not  lured  him;  she  had  not  been  waiting  for 
him,  as  the  desirous  feminine  awaiteth  the  superior 
being.  Tradition  itself,  the  perfect  tradition  of  the 
sexes,  was  exploding  like  firecrackers  in  the  little 
hisses  and  snickers  that  went  off  just  above  his  hum- 
bled head.  He  doubted  that  he  would  be  able  even 
to  "hover"  in  silence — ^with  his  wonted  dignity 
and  optimism — for  some  time  to  come. 

"Lavender,"  he  repeated.  He  gathered  up  the 
reins,  hardly  knowing  that  he  did  so,  and  motioned 
the  stocky  pony  away  from  the  vine-clad  walls  of 
Mockery's  citadel. 

"Don't  forget  to  give  my  messages,"  she  called 
after  him.  "Cards  at  Villa  Rose  this  evening. 
Don't  be  later  than  seven." 

He  might  still  be  muttering  "Lavender"  as  he 
went  on  his  way;  but  there  was  just  one  colour,  at 
that  moment,  of  which   Mr.  Albert  Andrews  was 


loo      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

positive,  and  that  colour  was  gray.  All  the  world 
was  gray,  drab-gray. 

Rosamond  ran  into  the  house  to  examine  Dom 
Paradises  cake,  but,  while  she  poked  a  sprig  from  the 
broom  into  its  dough,  she  was  still  pondering  Mr. 
Andrews's  odd  behaviour. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  exclaimed  as  she  found  to  be 
satisfactory  what  the  end  of  the  bent  straw  revealed. 
"Rosamond,  dear,  do  you  suppose  that  dubby  thing 
was  making  love  to  you  ?  Is  that  what  will  happen 
to  you,  Rosamond,  now  that  you  have  put  off  the 
last  black  ribbon?  Haven't  you  seen  it  coming.? 
Proposals  from  the  stupid  men  and  gossip  from  the 
catty  women,  till  they  make  you  marry  somebody — 
somebody  old!  Rosamond,  dear,  you  simply  must 
go  in  search  of  that  irredeemably  bourgeois  lover  this 
afternoon.     And  you  have  no  time  to  lose." 

However,  she  refused  to  be  downcast.  There 
would  still  be  six  hours  of  sun  in  this  day — even  if 
His  Friggets  came  back  to-morrow. 

She  was  so  busy  in  the  kitchen  and  pantry  that 
she  did  not  hear  one  o'clock  ring  from  the  tower  bell 
at  twenty  minutes  past  the  hour.  The  toll-man, 
being  full  of  years  and  midday  dinner,  had  fallen 
asleep  immediately  after  tucking  away  his  meal.  On 
awaking  he  decided,  very  sensibly,  to  ignore  the 
occurrence,  and  to  ring  the  hour  as  usual,  no  matter 
what  the  time  might  be. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DOM  PARADISES  cake,  as  modified  by  Rosamond 
of  Roseborough  and  twentieth  century  dietetic 
caution,  came  from  the  oven  a  golden  brown  and 
snowy  white  success.  Its  odour  was  unique  and 
delectable.  Its  weight  was  light  as  a  pufF.  Rosa- 
mond surveyed  it  with  a  pride  almost  equal  to  that 
which  must  have  extended  the  cheeks  and  bosom  of 
its  sybaritic  inventor,  LalHa  y  Poptu  de  Sillihofo 
Sanza,  Countess  of  Mountjoye,  when  she  first  saw  the 
glory  she  had  evolved  to  deck  the  inner  circles  of 
her  beloved.     She  sniffed  it  in  long-drawn  delight. 

"Mum-mum — ooh-h!  No  wonder  he  ate  himself 
to  death  for  love  of  you,  Contessa!  I  wonder  if 
Dom  Jack,  the  Prince  of  Roseborough,  is  fat  ?*' 

She  dropped  herself  into  Amanda's  apron  again 
and  set  about  preparing  the  icing.  Countess  Lallia 
had  called  it: 

A  stylle  and  stykkie  sauce  of  the  smoothe  colour  of  a 
pearle  but  lyke  to  a  paste  wych  dydde  covere  my  cake 
about  lyke  a  napkyn,  as  it  were  a  mysterie. 

"I  think  my  icing  will  be  nicer  than  yours,  Con- 
tessa— without  all  that  oriental  sweetmeat  chopped 

lOI 


i6.i       ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

fine  and  beaten  into  it.  There  will  be  less  anticipa- 
tory excitement  about  my  cake  and  more  of  the  calm 
satisfaction  one  feels  when  one  knows  what  is  coming 
next.  You  had  so  many  mixed  spices  and  sweets  and 
flavours  in  your  cake  that  Dom  Paradis  could  not 
possibly  tell  from  one  bite  what  the  next  would  taste 
like.  There  is  a  modern  slang  term  that  describes 
the  culinary  tactics  you  employed  on  the  prince's 
appetite — you  *kept  him  guessing."' 

At  first  the  whole  conceit  of  the  Countess  of 
Mountjoye's  cake — "devysed  and  styrred  first  in  the 
yeare  171 5,"  and  now  reproduced  in  almost  identical 
mixture  from  the  old  recipe — had  seemed  to  her 
deliciously  humorous.  She  had  chuckled  and  chat- 
tered over  it  to  herself  and  extracted  from  it  a  larger 
degree  of  the  essence  of  mirth  than  had  come  to  her 
palate  and  nostrils  in  many  weeks;  for  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  life  at  Villa  Rose  lacked  brightness.  A 
mansion  full  of  antiques,  with  no  human  associates 
but  servants  of  the  same  vintage,  did  not  provide  the 
kind  of  environment  which  spontaneously  generates 
happiness  in  the  heart  of  youth.  Hibbert  Mearely's 
widow  had  been  a  prisoner  in  her  own  grandeur, 
daily  acquainted  with  that  state  which,  to  the  young, 
is  worse  than  sharp  grief,  namely,  boredom. 

To-day,  with  the  departure  of  His  Friggets,  and  the 
new  meeting  with  her  young  heart — ^which  had  taken 
place  when  she  regarded  herself  in  the  Orleans  mirror 


*' GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      103 

— a  joy  had  awakened  within  her  like  the  return  of 
her  girlhood.  So  vivid  a  joy  it  was,  so  brave  and 
confident,  that  it  had  sent  her  forth  singing  salutations 
to  herself,  as  if  she  believed  the  whole  sun-filled, 
rose-scented  earth  were  calling  to  her  in  that  syren 
phrase,   "Good-morning,  Rosamond!'' 

How  swiftly  joy  had  unfolded  hope!  And  how 
naturally,  inevitably,  both  had  promised  love! 
Permeated  with  them,  she  had  defied  Villa  Rose  and 
its  antiquities  to  hold  her  spirit  twenty-four  hours 
longer.  Lo,  a  day  was  given  her — a  Wonderful  Day. 
In  it  she  might  recapture  her  lost  heritage — romance. 

Now,  while  she  beat  white  of  egg  and  powdered 
sugar  together  to  make  the  fundamental  paste  of  the 
icing  for  the  Paradis  cake,  an  indefinable  sense  of 
sorrow  descended  upon  her.  Thought  lost  its  elas- 
ticity of  hope — it  lagged  and  drooped.  A  lassitude 
crept  over  her  whole  person.  Her  eyelids  felt  hot  and 
heavy.  There  was  a  pressure  on  her  head  that  kept 
it  from  tossing  in  the  air  after  its  wonted  fashion 
like  a  proud  hollyhock. 

"Everything  is  going  wrong,"  she  whispered.  "I 
have  a  presentiment  of  it — ^just  as  if  some  dreadfully 
unhappy  thing  had  taken  place  and  I  was  about  to 
hear  of  it."  A  tear  fell,  hit  the  rim  of  the  soup  plate 
in  which  she  was  beating  the  icing,  and,  luckily, 
rolled  off  instead  of  in.  Both  eyes  filled  again.  She 
wiped  them  on  the  back  of  her  arm,  and,  by  this 


I04      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

mournful  gesture,  sent  a  trail  of  icing  across  the  wall 
from  the  fork  in  her  hand. 

"I  never  felt  so  sad  in  all  my  life,"  was  her  inward 
admission,  as  she  set  about  filling  the  cake  with  the 
cooked  concoction  of  chopped  figs,  nuts,  raisins,  and 
candied  fruit  that  made  two  inches  of  lusciousness 
between  the  layers.  This  fruity  mixture,  further 
complicated  with  the  oriental  "sweets  and  spyces'' 
of  her  period.  Countess  Lallia  had  poured  into  the 
centre  of  the  original  cake  and  baked  the  whole 
together.  In  Rosamond's  day,  fortunately  for  the 
more  nervous  digestive  apparatus  of  current  human- 
ity, wisdom  has  reduced  weightiness  in  cookery — hence 
the  layer  cake. 

She  proceeded  to  encase  the  whole — a  large,  im- 
posing square  of  three  layers — in  the  "stylle  and 
stykkie  sauce  of  the  smoothe  colour  of  a  pearle." 

She  went  about  it  slowly  and  with  downcast  mien 
— sighing  and  sniffing — tears  welling  over  her  lids. 
When  she  had  put  the  perfected  achievement  away 
in  the  pantry  to  await  its  modern  Dom  Paradis,  she 
sank  down  in  the  kitchen  rocker  and  let  woe  take  its 
way  with  her.  She  thought  of  her  high  hopes  of  the 
morning  and  marvelled  at  the  malevolent  power  of 
fate,  which  could  change  those  hopes,  at  the  noon 
hour,  into  vague,  insidious  griefs.  Her  body  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  substance,  to  be  let  out  into  space. 
She  felt  vacant  and  psychic. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r      105 

"Something  dreadful  is  going  to  happen/*  she 
whimpered.  "I  feel  my  heart  sinking  right  out  of 
me. 

She  wished  that  she  were  not  alone.  The  big 
house,  so  silent  and  aloof,  was  oppressive.  She  ques- 
tioned if  it  were  safe  for  her  to  remain  there,  solitary, 
and  decided  that  she  would  have  Blake  sleep  in  the 
house  that  night. 

"Fd  give  anything  right  now  to  have  His  Friggets 
walk  in  and  say  *It's  a  quarter  to  one,  Mrs.  Mearely. 
I  persoom  you'll  like  your  lunch.'  That  reminds 
me,"  she  added,  "I  suppose  it  must  be  almost  that 
time  now." 

Unable  to  see  the  clock  from  where  she  sat  she 
rose  listlessly. 

"Ten  minutes  past  one?  Why — no!  It  is  the 
long  hand  that  is  at  one.  Surely  it  can't  be  five 
minutes  past  two  ! " 

She  was  still  denying  this  when  the  bell  rang  from 
the  tower  by  the  river. 

"  Two  o'clock  !  Two — and  I  haven't  had  my  lunch. 
Why,  I — Fm  starving  .^" 

Discovery  of  the  true  cause  of  her  sudden  malady 
went  far  toward  curing  it.  She  ran  to  the  larder, 
to  see  what  cold  fare  she  could  find  there,  all  ready 
to  be  devoured  without  delay  in  preparation.  She 
thought,  with  compunction,  of  the  faithful  Friggets, 
always  as  punctual  as  time  itself,  who  would  never 


io6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

have  let  her  fall  into  this  pathos  of  the  interior  vac- 
uum, had  a  greater  grief  not  called  them  from  her 
service. 

She  found  so  many  dishes,  that  she  might  have 
wondered  if  His  Friggets  had  not  been  secretly 
preparing  for  a  party,  except  that  she  knew  well  their 
one  extravagance.  They  would  cook,  when  the 
spirit  moved  them.  They  were  proud  of  their 
cooking;  and  they  argued  that  what  was  uneaten 
could  always  be  given  to  the  clergyman,  whose 
stipend  was  meagre,  and  what  he  did  not  devour  he 
could  pass  on  to  the  thirteen  McGuires,  who  em- 
bodied Roseborough's  poor.  It  must  be  confessed 
not  only  that  the  vicar  was  tempted  from  spiritual 
yearnings,  by  the  tasty  abundance  of  His  Friggets' 
art,  but  that  the  thirteen  McGuires  were  fattening 
like  pigs.  Their  sleek  looks  mocked  at  sweet  charity's 
very  name.  Mrs.  McGuire,  herself,  had  given  up 
her  random  profession  of  charwoman,  because,  as  she 
said:  "Sure  an'  I've  got  too  heavy  to  be  bendin' 
me  waist,  and  up  and  down  on  me  knees,  and  the 
loike." 

It  occurred  to  Rosamond  that  His  Friggets'  ex- 
travagance in  this  one  direction  was  fortunate  for 
her,  to-day,  since  it  not  only  provided  her  with 
lunch  but  with  refreshments  for  her  guests  of  the 
evening.  There  were  two  large  trembling  jellies, 
bowls  of  cream,  a  junket,  a  whole  roasted  chicken 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      107 

and  a  whole  boiled  one — ["FU  turn  the  boiled  one 
into  a  salad  for  to-night,"  she  thought] — cold  ham, 
which  had  been  boiled  in  a  pot  of  Amanda's  own 
brew  of  currant  wine,  and  half  a  dozen  quart  bottles 
of  the  parsnip  wine,  considered  by  Amanda,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  as  the  diamond  in  her  crown. 
All  Roseborough  admitted  that  Amanda  Frigget's 
parsnip  wine  was  so  good,  so  golden,  and  so  lively, 
that  it  both  looked  and  tasted  "exactly  like  cham- 
pagne, except  that,  instead  of  the  regular  cham- 
pagne taste,  it  had  the  taste  of  parsnips." 

Rosamond  appropriated  the  roast  chicken  and 
found  bread  and  butter  also  for  her  needs.  To  these 
she  added  a  tall  glass  of  foamy  milk.  A  crock  filled 
with  cookies  was  another  pleasant  discovery. 

She  pictured  to  herself,  amid  giggles,  tlie  expres- 
sions that  would  adorn  the  faces  of  Amanda  and 
Jemima  and  all  Roseborough  if  they  could  see  the 
distinguished  Hibbert  Mearely's  widow  perched  on 
the  end  of  the  kitchen  table  eating  with  her  fingers. 

**I  suppose,  if  I  were  a  born  lady,  Fd  starve  be- 
cause there's  no  one  here  to  set  my  lunch  before  me 
properly,"  she  thought,  "well,  there  are  advantages 
in  having  a  pedigree  of  butter  pats." 

As  one  second  joint,  followed  by  the  other,  was 
nipped  all  around  neatly  to  the  bone,  and  the  milk 
followed  the  chicken  fragments,  Rosamond's  inde- 
finable sorrow  vanished.     She  hung  Amanda's  apron 


io8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

on  its  hook,  and  ran  upstairs  to  wash  her  face  and 
hands  and  catch  up  a  loosened  curl  or  two. 

She  had  decided  to  spend  the  afternoon  hours  in  a 
nook  she  knew  by  the  river,  not  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  bell  tower.  It  was  the  loveliest  spot  in  the  valley 
and,  unseen,  one  might  watch  the  three  roads  that 
crossed  one  another  at  the  tower.  She  needed  a 
parasol,  and  ignoring  the  four  black  ones — one  with 
lavender  flowers — and  the  two  black  and  white  ones 
— the  latest  with  a  white  chiffon  frill — ^which,  in 
their  appointed  order,  had  screened  her  grieved 
countenance  during  the  last  four  years — she  selected 
a  shot  silk  of  a  grass  green,  its  brightness  tempered 
with  silver  gray.  As  she  set  out  from  the  house 
now,  with  its  silken  shade  arched  over  her  bright 
hair  and  bringing  out  every  bit  of  life  there  was  in 
her  skin  and  her  gown,  even  Mr.  Albert  Andrews 
could  not  have  doubted  that  the  young  widow's 
mourning  days  were  over. 

With  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  her  gate,  she  paused. 
Far  down  the  road,  just  on  the  near  side  of  the  bridge, 
she  perceived  Blake  returning  with  the  obstreperous 
mare.  Even  while  she  looked,  she  saw  Florence  rear 
and  dart  off  down  the  road  to  Poplars.  There  was  a 
trotting  on  the  gravel  road  immediately  round  the 
curve  of  Villa  Rose's  line.  In  a  moment  the  rider 
had  reined  in  at  the  gate  and  uncovered  in  salute  to 
her. 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      109 

"I  hope  he  doesn't  think  he  has  come  to  make  a 
special  call — he  looks  all  dressed  up — because  Fm  not 
going  indoors  again,"  was  her  mental  greeting. 
Aloud,  she  said,  cordially,  "Good  afternoon,  Judge 
GifFen." 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  ROSEBOROUGH,  as  has  been  remarked,  Judge 
GifFen  was  universally  listed  by  the  adjective 
** imposing."  Those  spinsters  with  clinging  natures 
preferred  to  describe  him  as  "authoritative."  Miss 
Palametta  Watts,  who  was  suspected  (to  put  it 
mildly)  of  special  leanings — not  to  say  intentions — 
in  his  direction,  called  him  "masterful."  Quite 
recently  Miss  Palametta  had  boldly  charged  him 
with  this  trait;  and,  with  the  daring  of  desperate 
thirty-seven,  had  asked  him  if  she  were  not  correct  in 
deducing  from  his  stern  mien  that  his  wife,  when  he 
selected  one,  would  be  constrained  to  obey  him;  for 
her  own  part  she  knew  she  would. 

"Such  is  the  scriptural  injunction,"  he  pronounced 
after  weighing  the  matter;  but,  to  her  disappoint- 
ment, pursued  the  subject  no  further.  To  be  sure, 
not  having  his  glasses  on  at  the  time,  he  may  not 
have  seen  her  inviting  looks. 

Mrs.  Witherby's  dicta  were  taken  as  final  in  Rose- 
borough,  for  it  was  conceded  that  she  had  "a  wonder- 
ful way  of  expressing  herself,"  and  Mrs.  Witherby  had 
a  vast  admiration  for  Judge  GiflFen  and  frequently 
summed  him  up  thus: 

no 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      iii 

"Well,  it  may  be  true  that  the  Judge  has  had  more 
decisions  reversed  than  any  other  judge  in  the  land, 
and  that  but  for  Hibbert  Mearely's  influence  he 
would  never  have  been  a  judge  at  all;  but  what  / 
always  say  is,  *  Where  in  all  Roseborough  (or  else- 
where, either,  for  the  matter  of  that)  will  you  find  a 
man  who  has  such  an  air  about  him?'  Judge  GifFen 
is  a  gentleman  who  understands  his  own  worth. 
One  can  see  that  at  a  glance." 

One  could  see  it  at  a  glance  this  afternoon  as  he 
rode  forward.  It  was  emphatically  a  man  with  a 
fine  understanding  of  his  own  worth  whom  the  large, 
flea-bitten  white  horse  brought  to  pause  at  Villa 
Rose's  gate.  Though  above  medium  stature,  he 
was  still  not  so  tall  as  he  appeared,  from  the  height  of 
his  collar  and  the  lofty  manner  of  carrying  his  head. 
It  was  this  last  habit  in  particular,  no  doubt,  which 
gave  him  the  "air"  so  much  admired. 

His  hair  was  graying  with  an  even  pepper-and-salt 
sprinkling.  He  allowed  it  to  grow  long  in  front, 
that  his  small,  square  forehead  might  be  ornamented 
with  a  "statesman's  lock."  His  eyes  were  small  and 
brown  and  of  no  marked  luminosity  or  keenness;  his 
pepper-and-salt  eyebrows  were  short  and  highly 
peaked  at  the  outer  corners — a  sign,  phrenologists 
declare,  of  latent  ferocity.  Doubtless  the  eyebrows 
assisted  Miss  Palametta  Watts  to  her  definition  of 
"  masterful."     He  wore  a  short-cropped  moustache 


112      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

naturally,  and  affected  an  imperial  and  goatee.  His 
morals,  of  course,  like  all  Roseborough  morals,  were 
above  reproach.  His  hobbies  were  chess  and  the 
Weekly  Digest,  which  gave  him  the  news  of  the  world 
in  twelve  pages  of  small  paragraphs  with  inserts  of 
verse,  fiction,  humour,  publisher's  advertisements, 
and  editorials  on  all  world-wide  topics,  from  single 
tax  to  the  Oriental  problem  and  back  by  way  of  the 
clam  middens  of  British  Columbia  to  the  Greek 
schism  and  free  verse.  By  Hngering  and  studious 
perusal,  he  managed  to  make  each  week's  Digest 
last  until  the  post  brought  the  next. 

For  the  rest,  he  dwelt  in  apartments  in  the  house 
of  a  Mrs.  Taite,  a  gentlewoman  fallen  into  adverse 
circumstances,  who  was  willing  to  take  in  and  care 
for  a  paying  guest  in  order  to  eke  out.  He  lived 
in  an  economical  and  dignified  style,  and  kept  two 
horses,  on  the  means  which  could  very  much  better 
have  been  applied  to  the  purchase  of  a  neat  cottage 
to  shelter  a  wife.  At  least  such  was  the  opinion  of 
Roseborough's  spinsters. 

Perhaps  the  Judge  did  not  treat  the  Roseborough 
spinsters  quite  fairly.  The  legal  mind,  by  reason  of 
its  professional  habits,  becomes  versed  in  subtleties, 
evasions,  and  the  like — "technicalities"  as  they  are 
called.  The  judge's  apartments  were  sincerely  and 
solidly  furnished  by  Mrs.  Taite;  but  they  were  dec- 
orated   with    technicalities    and    evasions.     In    this 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      113 

wise:  on  the  slippery  horsehair  sofa  (supplied  by 
Mrs.  Taite)  there  was  a  row  of  cushions  contributed 
by  hungry  hearts.  They  were  stuffed  with  rags, 
excelsior,  goose  feathers,  or  ducks'  down,  according 
to  the  financial  rating  of  Miss  Hopeful;  and  covered 
with  crochet,  tatting,  crazy-quilt  patches,  sampler, 
or  crewel  work,  according  to  her  taste  and  her  pro- 
ficiency with  the  embroidery  needle,  the  bobbin,  or 
the  small  steel  hook.  One  sampler-topped  pillow 
bore  the  legend,  tidily  cross-stitched  in  a  circle: 
"When  here  you  rest  your  weary  head,  dream  of  the 
Giver."  The  Judge  had  accepted  the  cushion  and 
highly  complimented  the  workmanship,  vaguely 
maundered  on  the  sweet  thoughts  that  natively  abide 
in  woman's  breast,  and  set  the  pillow  at  the  foot  of 
the  sofa.  As  his  stockinged  or  slippered  pedal 
extremities  were  not  dreamers,  he  could  use  the 
gift  without  troubling  his  weary  head  about  the 
giver.  Thus,  it  will  be  seen,  that  the  learned  jurist 
could  appropriate  the  soft  advantages  of  a  tentative 
contract,  and  escape  the  expected  payment  on  a 
technicality,  as  well  as  any  man  he  ever  solemnly 
upbraided  in  court  for  the  same  act. 

"I  know  what  /  should  like  to  do  with  these 
rooms,"  Miss  Hopeful  would  say,  with  arch  looks. 

The  Judge  would  answer  promptly: 

"What,  for  instance?^' 

He  was,  in  his  way,  a  shrewd  man  as  a  man  who 


114      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

knows  a  trifle  about  horses  is  apt  to  be.  He  asked 
purposely,  because,  since  the  spinsters  of  Rose- 
borough  were  each  and  all  "homey"  women,  do- 
mestic by  training,  he  had  found  that  their  sugges- 
tions, when  followed  out,  added  to  the  comfort  of  his 
bachelor  life. 

Encouraged  by  his  receptivity,  the  lady  would 
express  her  idea  and  even  off*er  to  come  and  assist 
**dear  Mrs.  Taite"  in  putting  it  into  effect.  More 
than  one  damsel  had  spent  her  half  hour  mounted 
on  a  kitchen  stool,  with  her  mouth  full  of  tacks,  while 
dear  Mrs.  Taite  handed  the  hammer  back  and  forth 
and  made  mental  note  of  defects  in  the  aspirant's 
figure  to  retail  later  to  the  judge,  who  liked  what  he 
called  "  a  well-turned  woman."  To  retain  her  paying 
guest  was  Mrs.  Taite's  life-work. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  Judge  had  been  in  no  haste 
to  woo.  He  was  not  touched  with  Romeo's  fever. 
His  temperament  was  judicial  and  calm.  He  was — 
it  may  again  be  remarked — shrewd.  He  knew  to  a 
penny  exactly  what  his  monthly  income  could  do  for 
him  in  the  way  of  providing  a  Roseborough  gentle- 
man's requisites,  and  he  was  in  little  danger  of 
deliberately  seeking  to  curtail  his  small  personal 
luxuries  by  taking  a  dowerless  wife.  So  he  Hstened 
the  more  appreciatively  to  his  landlady's  analyses 
of  the  dispositions  and  physical  characteristics  of 
Roseborough's  spinsters. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      115 

"Knowledge  is  power,"  he  would  aver  with  a 
solemn  sort  of  waggishness,  when  she  had  permitted 
him  to  gather,  from  her  discourse,  that  there  was 
not  an  ankle  among  the  lot  which  would  dare  show 
itself  in  a  plain  white  stocking;  or  that  a  certain 
melting-eyed  one's  shoulder  blades  or  hip  bones 
were  "  at  least  no  sharper  than  her  temper,''  He  knew 
from  other  of  Mrs.  Taite's  hints — dropped  generally 
while  stirring  a  hot  cup  of  chocolate  for  his  nightcap 
and  buttering  a  toasted  scone  to  accompany  it, 
that  some  young  ladies  who  owned  to  twenty-six 
would  never  see  thirty-three  again,  and  that  a 
baby-waisted  white  muslin  frock  was  no  longer  the 
badge  of  a  guileless  heart,  as  it  had  been  in  the  days 
when  she  wore  one  to  induce  that  maiden's  shock, 
the  first  kiss. 

What  with  Mrs.  Taite's  chocolate  and  subtlety 
and  the  judge's  legal  technicalities,  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  Roseborough  spinsters  were  out-generalled. 
They  had  once  been  a  threat;  but,  nowadays,  there 
was  scarcely  the  aroma  of  danger  surrounding  them. 
Mrs.  Taite  felt  that  the  menace  to  her  came  from 
another  quarter.  It  had  (as  she  mentally  phrased  it) 
"struck  upon  her  bosom  and  fairly  winded  her" 
one  evening  when  Judge  GifFen  had  remarked,  be- 
tween chocolate  sips,  that  Mrs.  Mearely  had  received 
him  that  afternoon  in  a  black-and-white  striped 
gown.     Unlike    Mr.    Albert    Andrews,    the    Judge 


ii6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

rather  prided  himself  on  having  an  eye  for  feminine 
apparel. 

"And  she  looked  uncommonly  well  in  it,  too,"  he 
added.  "A  very  well-turned  woman  is  Mrs.  Mearely. 
Yes,  Mrs.  Taite,  I  believe  poor  dear  Mearely's 
taste  to  have  been  as  infallible  in  that  case  as  in 
every  other." 

"Mr.  Hibbert  Mearely  had  the  large  means  neces- 
sary to  indulge  a  woman  of  such  extravagant  fancies." 
In  Mrs.  Taite*s  voice  there  was  a  tremolo  as  she  shot 
the  only  dart  she  could  find  at  that  moment,  knowing, 
alas,  that  it  was  unbarbed  save  to  her  own  heart. 

"And  now  she  has  the  means,  and  none  to  please 
but  herself." 

The  landlady  attempted  to  retrieve  her  error. 

"Considering  her  humble  origin,  I  should  hope 
she'd  spend  her  life  henceforth  as  an  offering  to  her 
distinguished  husband's  memory."  This  conversa- 
tion had  taken  place  on  a  winter's  evening,  but  that 
was  not  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Taite's  teeth  chattered. 

"Ah,  no  doubt — for  a  year  or  so.  Mearely,  him- 
self, was  a  great  stickler  for  form,  and  he  trained  her 
in  the  niceties  of  observance.  Her  origin — that  is  to 
say,  the  butter  pats  and  so  on — is  a  forgotten  myth 
in  Roseborough  now." 

"Among  the  men,  perhaps." 

"A  forgotten  myth,  Mrs.  Taite.  Mearely  put  the 
quietus  on  it  by  his  will.     He  left  her  everything.     I 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      117 

drew  it  up,  you  know.  Yes;  he  was  in  the  pink  of 
condition  at  the  time — the  very  pink.  Whoever 
thought  he  would  go  to  his  last  account  not  three 
months  later?"  He  mused  on  this  so  long  that  Mrs. 
Taite,  anxious  to  get  to  the  terms  of  the  will  and 
learn  the  worst  she  had  to  fear,  put  in  a  remark  to 
bring  him  back  to  the  theme. 

*' Cholera  Morpheus,  was  it  not?" 

''Morbus,  Mrs.  Taite,  morbus — a  latin  word  mean- 
ing— er.  Yes.  Poor  dear  Mearely  said  to  me:  *I  am 
a  healthy  man  and  the  Mearelys  are  a  long-lived 
family.  I  except  to  see  ninety  and  bury  my  wife  a 
dozen  years  earlier,  as  my  grandfather  did  before  me. 
However,  we  are  all  mortal  and  subject  to  climate 
and  accident.  I  may  die  to-morrow  and  leave 
Mrs.  Mearely  a  widow.  I  wonder,  ought  I  make 
the  proviso  that  she  must  lose  all  my  fortune,  if  she 
marries  again?     What  would  you  advise?'  " 

"And  what  did  you  advise,  Judge  GifFen?"  Mrs. 
Taite  trembled. 

"Ah,  a  really  remarkable  thing!  I  advised  against 
it,  and  he  didn't  do  it." 

"What  a  calamity!"  Mrs.  Taite  cried  out  in  spite 
of  herself,  and  hastened  to  add:  "Leaving  her  at  the 
mercy  of  fortune  hunters." 

"I  said  that,  in  the  very  unlikely  event  of  her  being 
left  a  young  widow,  it  would  be  better  that  she 
should  have  the  responsibility  of  living  up  to  the 


ii8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mearely  name  and  estate.  This  duty  would  guide 
her  choice  in  re-marriage.  Whereas,  without  re- 
sponsibilities, she  might  hark  back  to  the  farm  strain 
and  contract  a  union  which  would  be  a  slur  on  the 
Mearely  honour.  He  perceived  the  point,  and,  after 
providing  for  a  few  bequests  to  relatives,  he  left 
her  everything,  on  condition  that  she  continued  to 
live  in  Villa  Rose.  *For,'  said  he,  *I  won't  have  her 
running  up  and  down  Europe,  spending  money  to 
fatten  a  conscienceless  army  of  waiters,  guides,  and 
concierges.  Let  her  remain  quietly  at  home  and 
continue  to  carry  out  my  artistic  scheme,  as  the  one 
rustic  and  indigenous  object  of  beauty  in  the  midst 
of  my  priceless  antiques  and  ohjets  d'art.'  That  was 
his  idea.  A  very  superior  man — ^was  my  dear  friend, 
Mearely." 

"  So  Mrs.  Mearely  has  control  of  her  fortune  and  is 
obliged  to  live  in  Roseborough?  Then  she  is  com- 
pelled to  choose  a  man  from  these  parts.'' 

"Yes.  If  she  leaves  Villa  Rose  and  Roseborough, 
she  loses  everything.  Yes,  it  was  I  who  drew  up 
that  will,  Mrs.  Taite.  I  relate  the  facts  to  you  now 
in  strict  confidence,  relying  on  your  discretion. 
You  have  been  my  confidante  for  a  number  of  years, 
Mrs.  Taite,  and  I  believe  there  is  no  woman  in 
Roseborough  so  discreet." 

Whereupon,  Mrs.  Taite  had  besought  him  to 
continue  this  reliance,  as  no  word  of  his  confidences 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      119 

had  ever  passed,  or  should  ever  pass,  her  lips;  but 
she  believed  that  the  will's  terms  were  not  unknown 
in  Roseborough;  she  had  heard  rumours,  indeed, 
though  she  had  not  credited  them.  Perhaps,  she 
thought,  Mr.  Howard,  being  a  distant  cousin  of  Mr. 
Mearely's,  had  felt  privileged  to  inform  Roseborough. 
On  the  contrary,  the  Judge  argued,  Mr.  Howard  had 
known  nothing  of  this  proviso.     He  was  sure  of  that. 

"Poor  Howard  would  have  been  left  out  entirely 
but  for  me.  I  got  his  little  legacy  for  him.  So 
much  per  year,  you  know — ^just  enough  to  keep  him, 
if  prices  don't  soar.  I  pointed  out  to  Mearely  that 
Howard  is  really  an  excellent  chess  player." 

Mrs.  Taite,  of  course,  had  never  heard  the  terms 
of  the  will  as  they  affected  Mrs.  Mearely's  re-mar- 
riage. When  she  said  she  had  heard  rumours 
she  meant  that  she  was  about  to  set  some  afloat. 
She  put  on  her  bonnet  and  took  two  pennies  to  the 
Widower's  Mite  Society's  treasurer,  Mr.  Albert 
Andrews,  and  dropped  the  hint  which,  in  due  course, 
matured  into  the  aim  of  his  Hfe.  It  was  she  who 
told  the  news  to  Wilton  Howard,  amid  sly  compli- 
ments; again  sowing  seed  which,  though  ignored  at 
the  time,  was  to  bear  fruit  later. 

Mrs.  Taite  saw  that  the  Judge  was  deliberately 
considering  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  union  with  the 
young  widow  when  all  her  black  should  have  been 
put  by,  and  she  intended  that  he  should  not  lack 


120      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

rivals.  She  knew  that  his  legal  mind  would  take  its 
time  in  coming  to  a  decision,  and  that  his  self- 
sufficient  nature  would  neither  anticipate  rivals  nor 
that  the  widow  might  say  him  nay.  Meanwhile, 
there  was  the  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  Mrs. 
Mearely  might  marry  a  faster  moving  admirer. 

She  racked  her  brains  for  schemes  to  balk  him. 
She  even  thought  wildly  of  sending  Mrs.  Mearely 
anonymous  letters,  or  of  poisoning  Villa  Rose's 
well  by  dropping  a  murdered  cat  into  it.  She 
nursed  her  fears  in  secret,  copiously  wept,  prayed 
nightly  that  a  worthy  gentlewoman  might  not  be 
brought  to  penury  through  the  unnecessary  matri- 
mony of  a  paying  guest,  and  took  to  walking  at 
midnight,  shut-eyed,  in  her  nainsook  and  curl  rags. 

Meanwhile  the  judge  had  handed  down  his  deci- 
sion, and  he  apprehended  no  reversal  of  it  by  the 
higher  court,  i.  e.,  by  fair  Rosamond  herself.  He  felt 
that  he,  of  all  men,  deserved  her  fortune  because  it 
was  he  who  had  prevented  a  pen-stroke  from  depriv- 
ing her  of  it.  Having  accepted  his  decision,  he  began 
to  formulate  a  plan  of  procedure.  He  rode  out  to 
Trenton  churchyard  and  verified  the  date  on  the 
headstone.  From  that  he  computed  a  proper  date 
for  proposal,  which  appeared  to  be  midsummer  week, 
a  year  and  six  months  from  the  day  on  which  Mrs. 
Mearely  had  received  him  in  black  and  white.  He 
would   go  to  see  her — say,  on   a  Wednesday — and 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       121 

inform  her,  in  dignified  yet  adequate  language,  of 
the  part  he  had  played  in  smoothing  Hfe  for  her. 
She  would  have  until  Sunday  to  regard  him  as  a 
benign  fate  and  to  become  so  mellowed  with  gratitude 
that,  when  he  returned  on  the  Sabbath  afternoon  to 
make  formal  offer  of  himself,  she  would  answer  with 
blushing  enthusiasm,  "Oh,  be  my  fate  again — a 
second  time,  and  forever." 

Unaware  that  this  midsummer  day  was  Rosamond's 
"Wonderful  Day"  (though,  if  he  had  known,  he 
would  have  found  the  fact  pleasantly  apropos)  or 
that  she  had  given  up  her  last  attenuation  of  mourn- 
ing only  a  few  hours  before  he  set  out  to  make  this 
preliminary  and  way-paving  call — resolved  upon, 
even  to  the  date,  eighteen  months  previously — 
Judge  GifFen  nosed  his  flea-bitten  white  horse  up  to 
the  gate  post,  removed  and  replaced  his  tall  hat  in 
high  and  solemn  salutation,  slipped  oflF  his  glove 
(gray,  with  two  pearl  buttons),  enclosed  Rosamond's 
rosy  palm,  and  said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  conveys 
information  of  grave  import : 

"Good-afternoon,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mearely." 
Almost  simultaneously  he  noticed  the  green-gray 
shot  parasol  and  the  lilac-bud  silk  gown  and  was 
distinctly  pleased  by  the  omen.     It  was,  indeed,  as 
if  she  had  expected  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

COURTESY  commanded  Rosamond  to  open  the 
gate  and  invite  the  Judge  in.  She  disobeyed. 
She  leaned  over  the  bar,  so  that  he  himself  could  not 
eflPect  entrance,  and  said  sweetly: 

"How  fortunate  that  you  arrived  at  this  mo- 
ment and  not  later.  For  I  can  at  least  exchange 
a  word  of  greeting  with  you  ere  I  continue  on  my 
way." 

He  pondered  this  unforeseen  contingency.  That 
she  might  not  be  at  home  to  receive  him  on  the  day 
set  had  never  occurred  to  him. 

"You  are  going  out?" 

"I  am  obliged  to  go.  It  is  an  unescapable  duty 
that  I  must  perform." 

"Surely  you  are  not  going  any  distance  on 
foot?" 

"Oh — er — the  carriage  will  be  here  in  a  moment," 
she  said  hastily.  "Er — in  fact — I  think  I  hear  it — 
I  mean,  see  it — down  the  hill.  Isn't  that  Blake  now, 
driving  in  from  the  Poplars  road?"  She  shaded  her 
eyes  and  peered,  as  if  she  were  honestly  trying  to 
distinguish  the  driver  of  a  romping  steed,  which  was 
just  then  taking  the  lowest  turn  of  the  hill  at  a  gallop. 

122 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      123 

By  strategy  and  force,  Blake  had  succeeded  in  driving 
the  mare  round  the  tower  and  back  to  the  Rose- 
borough  road. 

"Ah,  yes,  Blake.  You  know  I  advised  poor  dear 
Mearely  to  sell  Florence;  but  he  said  she  was  such  a 
beautiful  creature  that  he  would  rather  risk  his  neck 
with  her  than  sit  safely  behind  an  ugly  beast.  I 
should  advise  you  to  use  Marquis,  my  dear  lady. 
That  mare  is  not  rehable." 

"So  Blake  says.  He  threatened  to  take  her  to 
the  farm  yesterday.  But  he  also  says  he  can  manage 
her;  and,  as  he  always  does  manage  her  I  take  his 
word  for  my  safety  and  don't  worry.^  ' 

The  Judge  had  a  happy  thought. 

"You  may  regard  your  own  safety  thus  lightly, 
fair  lady.  But  will  you  not  consider  the  place  you 
hold  in  our  hearts?  Can  any  gallant  man  in  Rose- 
borough  think  of  your  unprotected  loveliness  in 
danger  and  keep  his  pulses  steady?'* 

Inwardly  Rosamond  registered  another  plaintive 
and  helpless  protest  against  the  misuse  of  her  bright 
gown  which  circumstance  was  making  that  day. 
"They'll  drive  me  back  to  crape,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "in  order  to  have  my  adventures  free  from  perse- 
cution." Aloud  she  said,  veiHng  her  eyes  till  they 
were  only  a  peep  of  sparkling  blue  heavens  through 
clouds : 

"I  have  begun  to  feel  lately  that  Roseborough's 


124      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

gentlemen  have  indeed — so  to  speak — a  perception 
of  my  lonely  state." 

"Ah.  As  to  the  others  I  can't  say.  They  would 
hardly  have  the — ah — same  interest  as  myself. 
No,  hardly,  I  have  a  personal  responsibility  regard- 
ing you." 

She  interrupted  quickly. 

**Has  your  invitation  reached  you  yet,  for  to- 
night.?" 

"Ah — yes.  I  thank  you.  I  met  Mrs.  Witherby 
on  the  bridge.     Ah — I  was  about  to  say     .     .     ." 

"Can  that  possibly  be  Florence  pounding  up  the 
hill?  Yes,  it  is.  Dear  me.  Really,  I  wish  she 
were  more  sedate,  to-day  of  all  days." 

Rosamond  was  talking  against  time;  her  words 
meant  nothing  more  than  that  she  desired  to  keep 
the  Judge  at  bay  until  the  carriage  arrived,  when  she 
would  pretend  she  had  visits  to  make  and  so  dismiss 
him.  Not  understanding  this,  the  Judge  was  in- 
spired by  her  last  sentence  to  a  very  pretty  belief; 
namely,  that  Mrs.  Mearely  wished  her  mare  to  trot 
sedately  on  this  day,  because  she  was  on  her  way  to 
the  cemetery;  a  visit  to  the  Mearely  plot  being  her 
delicate  method  of  assuring  both  the  departed  and 
Roseborough  that  her  return  to  colours  betokened 
no  frivolity  of  spirit — that  she  was  still  a  Mearely  and 
would  maintain  the  Mearely  dignity.  This  also,  he 
thought,  was  a  good  omen  for  him;  since  there  could 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      125 

be  no  question  about  his  superfitness  to  assist  her  in 
her  loyal  task. 

"My  dear  lady  .  .  ."  He  spoke  with  a  slow 
profundity  which  made  the  blinking,  sparkling  eyes 
open  wide  at  him.  "You  are  on  the  way  to  his — ah 
— grave.  I  understand.  I  may  say  I  more  than 
understand.  I  will  postpone  until  this  evening — ah 
— the  communication  I  came  here  to  make  to  you. 
Um — ah — drop  a  posy — ah — on  the  poor  fellow  for 
me,  will  you  not?" 

Rosamond  stared  at  him  as  blankly  as  any  milk- 
maid. 

''What  F"  said  she,  with  unmodified  bluntness. 

Whatever  might  have  developed,  in  the  course  of 
explanation,  was  prevented  by  a  rival  emissary  of 
fate,  with  less  propriety  and  more  force  than  Judge 
GifFen.  Florence  rounded  the  curve.  She  had  the 
bit  in  her  teeth  and  blood  in  her  eye — and  the  devil 
himself  in  her  heels  and  her  head.  Blake  was  chiefly 
occupied  in  administering  punishment.  If  she  would 
bolt,  she  should  do  it  under  the  whip,  until  discourage- 
ment set  in. 

Florence,  being  dumb,  could  not  explain  what  it 
was  about  the  stolid,  large,  high-backed,  flea-bitten 
white  horse  (and  possibly  his  imposing  master) 
which  irritated  her  beyond  endurance;  but  she  ex- 
pressed herself  after  her  temperament.  She  swerved 
from  the  road  and,  charging  upon  the  unsuspecting 


126      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

nag — whose  back  was  toward  her,  his  head  sunk  in 
the  timothy  along  the  wall — bit  him  sharply  on  the 
rump.  The  flea-bitten  white  was  less  stolid  than 
he  looked.  He  emitted  a  shrill  snort  and  kicked 
with  all  his  might;  the  Judge  lost  his  hat  and  almost 
lost  his  seat.  Florence  pranced  in  and  nipped  the 
other  side.  Whereupon  the  flea-bitten  white  sounded 
his  protest  to  all  the  world,  reared,  turned  and  ran  at 
a  racing  gait  down  the  hill.  The  Judge's  pince-nez 
flew  off*  in  one  direction  and  his  crop  in  the  other; 
the  bridle  had  already  been  jerked  from  his  easy 
hold,  so  that  it  is  no  slur  on  his  horsemanship  to  say 
that  Judge  Giff"en  rode  down  the  first  two  winds  of 
the  hill  cHnging  to  the  pommel. 

What  of  Florence?  In  sidling  in  to  take  her 
second  nip,  she  had  swung  the  light  vehicle  half- 
round,  and  now,  ere  Blake  could  get  the  mastery,  she 
swung  it  all  the  way  and  charged  off"  down  the  hill 
again.  The  pounding  of  hoofs  on  the  gravel  brought 
more  rthan  one  Roseborough  dweller  to  her  front 
windows.  Presumably  Mrs.  Mearely's  were  not 
the  only  eyes  to  see  the  finale.  The  judge's  horse, 
ignoring  the  shouts  of  the  toll-man  and  the  closing 
of  the  bridge  to  let  a  tow  go  by,  leaped  the  gates  and 
the  towline  and  galloped  over  the  bridge  and  dis^ 
appeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Blake's  experience  was  less  happy.  Florence  did 
not  include  the  carriage  in  her  calculations,  but  at- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      127 

tempted  to  perform  the  same  feat.  She  got  through 
the  barrier,  by  taking  it  with  her;  but  the  wheels 
were  tipped  by  the  fence  rails,  the  vehicle  rose  upon 
its  side  and  Blake  dived,  as  if  from  a  springboard, 
into  the  river.  His  aquatics  seemed  to  satisfy 
Florence's  passion  for  excitement  for  that  day  at 
least.  She  righted  herself  deftly  and  began  to  crop 
the  clover  beside  the  path,  all  mildness  now  as  to 
mien. 

The  men  on  the  barge  fished  Blake  out  with  ropes 
and  a  hook.  He  was  none  the  worse  evidently,  for 
he  climbed  to  his  seat  and  started  Florence  home- 
ward under  a  harsh  hand. 

Until  then  Mrs.  Mearely  had  had  the  grace  to 
resist  the  temptation  to  laugh.  Now  the  storm  took 
her,  and  shook  her  the  worse  for  her  repression. 
She  laughed  until  she  was  so  limp  that  she  was 
obliged  to  hang  on  to  the  gate  to  keep  from  falling, 
and  then  she  laughed  until  she  was  so  limp  that  she 
could  no  longer  hold  to  the  gate.  She  collapsed  in  a 
bed  of  mignonette  and  sweet  alyssum,  green  parasol 
and  all,  exactly  as  if  some  one  had  broken  ofF  a  big 
bunch  of  Hlac  and  tossed  it  there.  In  the  end,  she 
turned  over  on  her  side,  laid  her  head  on  a  white 
close-growing  pillow  of  alyssum  and  wept  quietly, 
because  flesh  and  blood  could  bear  no  more. 

Thus  Blake  found  her,  when  dripping  coachman 
and  foaming  mare  stopped  at  the  gate. 


128      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"By  the  Lud!  Mrs.  Mearely,  mum,  are  ye  in  a 
swound  ?  The  dundered  'oss  '11  kill  us  all  afore  she's 
contented." 

"No,  Blake.  I — I'm  all  right  now,"  Rosamond 
answered  weakly.  "What — what  do  you  suppose 
is  the  matter  with  the  mare.?" 

"The  mare,"  he  exploded  wrathfully.  "Well, 
mare  she  may  be,  an'  mare  she  is;  but  a  lady  she 
ain't,  nor  never  will  be!  She's  a  wicious,  a  indecent, 
an'  a  cavortin'  female — an'  'eadstrong,  also,  like  all 
of  her  sect.  I  never  saw  a  female  of  any  specie  that 
was  wuth  her  salt;  an'  they're  that  irksome  they 
wears  a  man  out  with  chastisin'  of  'em.  Soon  as 
I've  got  a  dry  change  on  me,  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  this 
she-himp  of  Satan  out  to  the  farm;  and  I'll  give  her 
such  a  what-for  on  the  road  as'll  tone  down  her 
'abits,  or  I'm  but  a  ol'  feeble  Har." 

"You'll  bring  Marquis  back?" 

"Ay,  mum.  Marquis  is  a  gentleman.  But  I 
won't  be  bringin'  'im  till  to-morrow  afternoon,  or 
mebbe  next  day.  It's  accordin'.  Look  at  her — 
the  deceiver!  To  see  her  now,  you'd  say  she  would- 
n't steal  oats.  Ugh!  You  'ap'azard  critter!  Did 
you  see  what  she  done,  mum.f*  Did  you  see  what 
she  done  to  his  honour,  the  Jodge — to  his  honour, 
Jodge  GifFen.?  'As  she  got  any  rev'rence  to  her? 
Not  a  penn'orth!  She  prances  on  to  the  werry 
dignity  of  the   Court,    an'   tares   up   an'   bites   his 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      129 

Sycle-hops.  Ugh!  You  'eretic!  Bitin'  the  werry 
dignity  of  the  Court  in  his  Sycle-hops!" 

"Bites?  Blake,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?'^ 
She  asked  the  question  in  trepidation,  lest  the 
strange  word  prove  a  disguise  for  some  indelicacy, 
Blake  being  simple  and  rustic  of  speech. 

"His  Sycle-hops.  His  'oss,  mum.  His  brown 
'oss  is  named  *Seep-yer' — for  the  colour,  he  says; 
w'ich  is  some  sort  of  a  'igh-tone  joke  befittin*  a 
Jodge,  no  doubt.  An'  the  flea-bitten  w'ite  he  calls 
Sycle-hops,  says  he,  account  of  him  bein'  sech  a  'uge 
'oss  an'  one  eye  a  bit  better'n  t'other."  Mrs. 
Mearley's  recently  acquired  knowledge  of  mythology 
came  to  her  aid. 

"Oh!     Cyclops!"     She  was  relieved. 

"Jes'  wot  I  said.  An'  that's  wot  this  wicious 
an'  wulgar  female  of  her  sect's  gone  an'  bit!  I'm 
mortyfied,  mum,  plumb  mortyfied.  I'll  drive  round 
now  an'  get  a  dry  change,  afore  the  five  teeth  I've 
got  drops  out  from  chill;  an'  then  I'll  be  off  till  to- 
morrow— or  next  day.  It's  accordin'.  Ugh!  You 
shameless,  wile,  an'  himproper  hanimal,  you!  I'll 
learn  ye  to  respect  the  Courts  o'  the  land." 

"So  you  won't  be  here  to-night.  Very  well. 
Hurry  off  at  once,  before  you  get  more  rheumatism. 
But  I  hope  you  won't  whip  Florence  any  more.  I'm 
particularly  fond  of  her.  You  must  not  be  cruel  to 
her,  Blake." 


I30      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"She's  a  female;  an'  wot  else  can  ye  do  with  a 
female?  They're  cavorters,  from  the  first  one  down 
the  line.  If  I'd  a-ben  Adam,  I'd  a-seen  wot  the 
A'mighty  meant  when  he  called  it  the  tree  o'  knowl- 
edge— a  tree  full  o'  switches,  that's  wot!  An'  I'd 
a-stopped  the  cavortin'  of  the  sect  right  there  where 
it  started.  Yes,  mum;  H'eve  would  a-ben  a  different 
'ooman  if  Timothy  Blake  had  'ad  her.  It  would 
a-ben  the  makin'  of  her,"  he  added  regretfully. 
"Good-day,  mum." 

He  did  not  turn  his  head  as  he  drove  off  and,  there- 
fore, was  not  affronted  by  the  sight  of  his  mistress 
rocking  with  laughter. 

"I  wonder  if  the  Judge's  horse  has  stopped  run- 
ning yet?"  she  said  to  herself,  and  danced  up  and 
down  on  her  toes  with  delight.  "I  shall  always  love 
Florence  for  that.     I  think  she  postponed  a  declara- 


tion." 


Three  o'clock  did  not  sound  from  the  stone 
tower.  The  toll-man  became  so  interested  in  re- 
lating to  a  farmer,  who  was  taking  a  load  of  live  fowls 
to  Trenton,  the  exciting  story  of  Florence's  achieve- 
ments— ^with  historical  references  to  the  Giffen  and 
Mearely  famihes,  and  notes  on  Blake's  pedigree,  also 
Florence's,  besides  digressions  as  to  his  own  age, 
health,  and  episodic  life-story — that  three  passed  to 
four  without  interrupting  his  train  of  thought. 
When  the  farmer  and  his  squawking  equipage  passed 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      131 

on,  the  toll-man  went  into  the  tower  to  fill  his  pipe 
from  the  cut  plug  in  his  coat  pocket,  planning  to  take 
a  few  pleasant  puffs  before  repeating  the  story  all 
over  again  to  a  black-suited,  black-whiskered  stranger 
he  saw  reaching  the  bridge  on  the  Trenton  side. 
His  coat  hung  under  the  clock;  and,  since  the  clock 
ticked  at  ten  after  four,  he  rang  the  hour.  When 
he  stepped  out  again,  the  stranger  had  disappeared. 
He  did  not  observe  an  abnormal  trembling  of  the  tall 
rushes  and  sedges  by  the  Roseborough  slough,  as 
if  a  large  body  were  crawling  among  them. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SINCE  Blake  would  not  be  on  the  premises  that 
night,  Rosamond  asked  herself  whether  she  ought 
not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Lee's  and  engage  Bella  Greenup  to 
stay  the  night  at  Villa  Rose.  She  had  never  spent  a 
night  alone  in  the  large  house  and  questioned  whether 
she  cared  to  do  so.  In  the  end  she  dismissed  the 
idea  of  a  companion;  for,  as  she  reminded  herself, 
the  community  had  never  had  a  burglar  or  even  a 
burglar  scare,  and,  while  an  occasional  tramp  might 
stray  to  the  Trenton  road,  none  had  been  known  to 
climb  the  hill  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  Rose- 
borough. 

Like  the  toll-man,  she  was  unaware  that  nearly  an 
hour  had  sHpped  by  in  the  combined  delay  of  the 
Judge's  call  and  Florence's  manoeuvres.  Still  under 
the  impression  that  the  afternoon  was  hers  to  spend 
by  the  river,  she  went  into  the  house  for  more  hair 
pins  to  catch  up  the  curls,  shaken  loose  by  laughter 
and  the  mignonette's  fingers.  She  satisfied  herself 
that  the  Orleans  mirror  reflected  a  vision  both  fair 
and  neat  enough  to  entrance  Love  at  sight,  if  he  should 
come  riding  by  where  the  rushes  divided  and  made  a 
peephole  to  the  slough.     Then  she  ran  downstairs 

132 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      133 

again,  but  her  gay  song  ceased  in  the  shock  of  hearing 
four  o'clock  ring  out — a  shock  by  no  means  modified 
when  she  asked  the  kitchen  clock  for  denial  and  saw 
the  long  hand  at  eleven  minutes  past  the  hour. 

"Four  o'clock!  If  Amanda  were  here  she  would 
be  bringing  me  tea  to  the  summer-house.  It  seems 
very  late  to  go  to  the  river;  because,  of  course,  I 
must  have  my  supper  at  five-thirty  as  usual.  Oh, 
dear!  I  ought  to  have  it  at  five  to-night;  because 
they  will  all  be  here  by  seven,  and  I  shall  take  so 
much  longer  than  His  Friggets  would  to  get  my  own 
supper  and  wash  up,  and  then  set  out  all  the  things 
for  them  on  the  dining-room  table  .  .  .  And,  of 
course,  if  I  don't  have  my  tea  now,  I  shall  be  hungry 
before  five-thirty.  Oh,  dear!  It  would  seem  that 
His  Friggets  have  their  uses  in  my  life,  after 
all." 

Another  wave  of  indignation  swept  over  her,  to 
cool  in  despair,  as  she  realized  how  her  Wonderful 
Day  had  vanished,  hour  by  hour,  leaving  her  only 
the  distressful  discovery  that  colours  were  not  going 
to  free  her.  From  now  on  she  would  risk  a  proposal 
from  some  tiresome  man  every  time  she  stepped 
abroad,  alone.  As  for  the  women  .  .  .  !  she 
trembled  to  think  of  the  gossip  that  might  gush  forth 
as  soon  as  they  saw  her.  Tittle-tattle  and  unwel- 
come proposals!  Were  these  to  be  her  lot  until,  in 
desperation,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  by 


134      "GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

one  or  other  of  Roseborough's  gentlemen?  Angry, 
helpless  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

*'If  I  were  smothered  in  crape  I  could  go  anywhere 
alone,  and  do  whatever  I  wanted  to,  without  stupid, 
silly  men  intruding.  I  didn't  know  when  I  was  well 
off,"  she  whimpered.  "Fve  never  once  got  outside 
the  gates  of  Villa  Rose  all  this  day!" 

Barely  one  hour  left!  What  should  she  do  with 
it? 

The  question  as  to  this  hour,  as  with  all  the  pre- 
vious hours,  was  settled  for  her  by  Roseborough. 
A  sound  of  wheels  on  the  road  ceased  at  her  carriage- 
gate.  In  a  trice,  she  saw  the  gate  unlatched  and 
borne  inward  by  a  short,  stout  woman  in  a  white 
mull  dress,  and  a  white  hat  covered  with  a  green 
mosquito-netting  veil,  which  served  to  keep  the  dust 
from  her  broad,  pink  countenance.  She  wore  also 
a  very  wide  tartan  sash  with  a  large  bunchy  bow  at 
the  back,  the  worse  for  being  much  and  heavily  sat 
upon. 

"Whatever  on  earth  are  The  Kilties  coming  here 
for?"  Rosamond  asked  herself  with  another  rush  of 
anger.  "Isn't  this  just  too  awful?"  She  stamped 
her  foot  in  vexation. 

She  did  not  need  to  see  the  cart  come  through  to 
know  that  all  three  of  the  Misses  MacMillan  were 
about  to  honour  her  with  a  visit.  Wherever  one 
MacMillan  went,  all  MacMillans  went.     While  Miss 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      135 

Elspeth  held  the  gate  open,  a  broken-kneed  gray 
nag  wobbled  into  the  grounds,  drawing  a  loose- 
wheeled,  scratched  cart,  with  one  seat  that  could 
comfortably  hold  two,  but  always  squeaked  protest- 
ingly  under  three.  Two  more  short,  stubby,  green- 
netted,  white-frocked  maids  crowned  the  cart;  both, 
like  their  eldest  sister,  displayed  the  MacMillan  plaid. 

To  Rosamond's  dismay,  their  cart  was  followed  by 
a  four-wheeler  laden  with  furbelows.  The  spinsters 
of  Roseborough  always  wore  white  fluffy  frocks  with 
bright  ribbon  sashes,  in  the  summer,  because  they 
were  "so  young-looking"  (the  frocks,  not  the 
spinsters).  The  four-wheeler  held  two  seats,  one 
stool,  and  seven  girls.  Only  two  could  sit  on  each 
narrow  seat;  but  there  was  a  stool  wedged  in  be- 
tween the  seats  and  one  sat  on  that,  holding  the  sixth 
girl  on  her  lap.  The  seventh  stood  partly  on  her 
own  and  partly  on  the  fifth  girl's  feet,  and  held  on 
with  all  her  might  to  the  back  of  the  front  seat  to 
keep  from  toppling  into  the  road.  When  the  vehicle 
stopped  and  they  all  tried  to  get  out,  the  whole 
looked  more  like  a  wrecked  ice-cream  cart  than  any- 
thing else,  with  the  white  flounces  spilling  and 
tumbling  over  the  edge  in  every  direction.  These 
were  the  Misses  Pelham-Hew. 

Dr.  Wells,  Roseborough's  highly  trusted  physician 
— a  doctor  of  the  old  school  and  a  man  who  loved  his 
joke  (no  matter  who  else  loved  it  not) — ^was  fond  of 


136      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

saying  that  the  difference  between  Jacob  Pelham- 
Hew  and  his  namesake  in  the  Old  Testament  was 
that  Jacob  of  the  Bible  waited  seven  years  for  one 
damsel  whereas  Jacob  Pelham-Hew  had  seven  dam- 
sels waiting  for  one  man — a  witticism  considered 
very  funny  by  everyone  in  Roseborough  but  the 
Pelham-Hews. 

In  the  wake  of  the  ice-cream  cart  came  a  scrawny 
sorrel,  drawing  a  sulky.  Miss  Graham  sat  in  the  one 
bowl-shaped  seat,  very  erect  and  mannish  in  de- 
meanour with  a  tan  coat  over  her  white  duck  dress 
and  sporting  a  "choker"  with  a  gold  horseshoe  pin. 
Miss  Imogen  Graham  let  it  be  known  that  she  was 
well  able  to  take  care  of  herself  and  despised  men; 
indeed,  she  would  not  look  at  one,  save  to  be  cour- 
teous. That  courtesy  was  the  keystone  of  her 
character  was  at  once  made  evident  if  there  was  a 
man  in  the  room,  for  he  never  lacked  her  company. 

Miss  Palametta  Watts  and  her  mother  in  their 
phaeton  brought  up  the  rear.  Miss  Palametta  was 
small — "a  lean,  simpering  wisp  of  a  thing,"  Mrs. 
Witherby  called  her.  She  possessed  two  brown  eyes, 
with  fairly  good  possibilities  in  the  Hne  of  flirtation, 
and  a  bang  of  curly,  brown  hair  that  had  received 
its  first  baptism  of  walnut  tea — what  is  called 
"touching  up" — ^just  above  the  ears  and  at  the  long 
ends.  Miss  Palametta  was  arch.  Some  one  had 
once  told  her  that  there  was  something  birdlike  in 


*' GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      137 

the  little  tosses  and  dartings  of  her  head  on  her 
long  throat,  with  the  unfortunate  result  that  her 
head  was  now  never  still  a  moment  and  she  twittered 
incessantly.  Her  mother,  who  was  very  fat  and 
nearly  stone  deaf,  accompanied  her  everywhere; 
for,  as  Miss  Palametta  said,  she  would  not  for  worlds 
be  classed  with  forward,  modern  women  who  showed 
themselves  in  public,  unchaperoned.  Under  cover 
of  her  mother's  deafness,  the  modest  creature  had 
practically  proposed  to  every  ehgible  man  in  Rose- 
borough;  and  had  so  compromised  one  poor  fellow 
that  he  fled  to  Trenton,  and  became  a  bank  clerk,  to 
escape  the  condemnation  Roseborough  heaped  on 
any  man  who  went  so  far  and  then  refused  his  destiny. 

Rosamond's  surprise  had  turned  to  alarm  by  the 
time  the  Watts'  chariot  hove  in  sight. 

"I'm  not  at  home,"  she  muttered,  blankly.  "/ 
am  not  at  home'' 

What  could  be  the  cause  of  this  white-starched 
avalanche  descending  upon  her  out  of  four  creaking 
rigs  ?     She  was  not  left  long  in  doubt. 

"We've  come  to  hear  all  about  the  new  man!" 
they  chorused,  in  running  up  the  steps  to  her. 
"Mrs.  Witherby  says  a  new  man  is  coming  to  Rose- 
borough  and  you  know  all  about  him." 

"I — er — I — I  don't  know  anything  about  him," 
she  stammered  to  the  eager,  glittered-eyed  ones, 
cramming  her  in  on  every  side. 


138      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do!  You've  been  told  everything,'* 
Elspeth  MacMillan  shrilled  in  her  ear  from  be- 
hind. 

"His  name  is  Jack  Falcon  and  he  used  to  go  to 
Charleroy,"  her  sister,  Jeanie  Deans  MacMillan, 
supplemented  from  in  front.     "Mrs.  Witherby  says 


so." 


"You  needn't  tell  me  anything  about  him,"  said 
Imogen  Graham,  in  her  deep  voice,  and  giving  her 
mannish  choker  a  tug.  "I  despise  men — in  fact 
nothing — nothing — disgusts  me  like  a  man!"  Any 
one  of  the  group  might  have  completed  the  sentence 
for  her;  they  had  all  heard  it  so  often. 

"He's  done  something /^mowj,"  Flora  Macdonald 
MacMillan  shrieked. 

"He's  made  a  lot  c£  money  "  Anabeth  Pelham-Hew 
called,  pushing  her  head  into  Rosamond's  ken  under 
Imogen  Graham's  elbow.  Anabeth  was  short,  and 
Dr.  Wells  said  her  hair  had  grown  thin  on  the  top 
from  scraping  against  her  taller  sisters'  angles  in 
order  to  thrust  herself  into  notice. 

"A  lot  of  money,"  Anabel,  her  twin,  echoed. 

"A  lot — a  lot  of  money!"  Justinia  Pelham-Hew 
stuttered. 

"Oh,  yes!  he's  made  a  lot  oi  money''  Constanza 
Pelham-Hew  came  in  with  the  longer  repetition — 
the  whole  line — exactly  as  if  the  thing  were  a  glee 
and  she  were  concluding  the  first  round. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r      139 

"Oh!  isn't  it  interesting?"  Maravene  Pelham-Hew 
trebled,  taking  up  the  second  verse. 

"Yes!  wn'Mt  interesting?"  .    .    . 

"Oh!  so  interesting  /"^ 

Claribel  and  Berthalin  Pelham-Hew  generally 
expressed  their  view  in  duet  form. 

"But  I  don't  know  anything  about  Mr.  Falcon. 
I  really  don't.  He's  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Lee's — I  mean 
he  was  a  pupil  of  the  Professor's — years  ago.  He — 
he  .  .  ."  Rosamond  stammered  on,  innocent 
that  she  was  arousing  the  worst  suspicions  in  the 
breast  of  the  one  silent  maiden  in  the  group,  the 
chaperoned  Palametta.  "He — er — is  coming  home 
to-morrow — from  Europe." 

"Europe?" 

"Europe?" 

"Europe?"  the  MacMillans. 

"For  my  part,"  Miss  Graham  boomed,  "if  you 
don't  stop  talking  about  that  man  I  shall  go  home. 
Nothing,"  said  she,  putting  her  arms  akimbo  and 
nudging  into  the  verandah  rail — "Nothing  disgusts 
me  Hke  a  man!" 

"I'd  be  so  glad  to — to — er — offer  you  tea,"  Rosa- 
mond said  hastily,  glad  of  a  chance  to  change  this 
embarrassing  conversation,  "only  Amanda  and 
Jemima  are  away  for  the  day;  and  I've — er  been 
out  to  tea  myself — and — er — the  fire's  out.  But  I 
hope  you've  all  had  your  tea." 


140      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Mrs.  Witherby  wouldn't  tell  us  a  thing  about 
the  man." 

"No!  she  didn't  tell  us,  either." 

"No!  she  thinks,  if  he  has  money,  she'll  get  him 
for  Corinne  or  her  precious  niece." 

"We  tried  to  get  Mabel  Crewe  to  come  with  us, 
but  she  said  she  didn't  care  whether  the  man  came 
to  Roseborough,  or  not!" 

'Tve  always  claimed  that  Mabel  Crewe  is  insin- 


cere." 


"It  will  be  so  nice  to  have  another  man  at  parties." 

"Did  you  hear  how  much  money  he  has?"  a 
Pelham-Hew  queried.  At  the  word  "money"  the 
chatter  ceased;  they  all  drew  up  at  attention. 

"I — that  is — Mrs.  Lee  didn't  say  anything  about 
money.  No,  really,  she  didn't."  Rosamond  felt 
as  cruel  as  if  she  had  wantonly  run  her  hat  pin  into 
seven  palpitating  Pelham-Hew  hearts.  Income  was 
so  pinched  and  painful  a  strain  in  their  home. 

"Noth — ing — about — mon — ey?" 

"You're  either  mistaken  or  you  are  amusing  your- 
self at  our  expense,  Mrs.  Mearely ! "  A  MacMillan's 
nerves  were  snapping  and  her  voice  was  so  sharp 
that  it  stung. 

"Mrs.  Witherby  said  positively  he'd  made  a  great 


success." 


"Positively!" 
^'Grea-at  success!" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      141 

"Yes — ^yes,  Mrs.  Lee  said  something  of  success," 
Rosamond  admitted,  but  I — er — gathered  that  it  was 
an  artistic  success." 

"Ugh!  the  brute!"  Miss  Graham  snarled.  The 
others  looked  blank. 

One  cold  titter  broke  the  silence.  It  emerged  from 
Palametta's  thin  lips.  Everyone  looked  at  her. 
They  knew  that  titter  of  Palametta's. 

"Why — of  course,"  said  Palametta  as  if  she  had 
discerned  what  should  have  been  obvious  to  every 
one.     "Why — of — course."     She  drawled  it. 

"Of  course  what?"  Rosamond,  the  sometimes 
blunt,  demanded. 

"IVe  been  noticing  your  gown  and  wondering 
why  you  won't  tell  us  anything  really  about  Mr. 
Falcon,"  she  twittered  archly,  darting  her  head  from 
side  to  side;  but  there  was  rather  more  of  the  snake 
than  of  the  bird  in  her,  as  she  did  it. 

"Miss  Watts,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  yes!"  a  MacMillan  shrilled.  "She's  in 
colours!" 

"Mrs.  Mearely's  in  colours,'  the  Pelham-Hew 
septet  sounded  the  tocsin. 

Rosamond's  face  blazed. 

"There's  no  change  in  my  dress,"  she  asserted 
violently,  "except  that  there  are  no  black  ribbons. 
I've  often  worn  white — ^with  flowers — in  the  evening. 
Why,  the  colour  of  this  dress  is" — she  caught  Pala- 


142      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

metta's  glittering  gaze,  then  a  Pelham-Hew's  ap- 
praising eye,  and,  realizing  that  this  feline  bevy  was 
not  composed  of  the  colour-bHnd,  finished  weakly — 
"well — it's  a  sort  of  lavender." 

Miss  Palametta  tittered  coldly. 

"It's  a  sort  that  never  grew  in  ia  border  of  fragrant 
remembrance  round  a  last  resting-place,"  the  eldest 
and  Scotchest  of  the  MacMillans  bur-r-red  at  her, 
sternly. 

Anabeth  Pelham-Hew's  eyes  filled  with  tears;  not 
only  did  her  lip  tremble,  but  her  chin  wagged,  with 
the  volume  and  velocity  of  the  fear  that  seized 
her. 

"You — ^you — ^you've  had  one  husband,  you — ^you 
greedy  thing!"  She  flung  herself  on  Anabel's 
breast  and  cried  hysterically. 

"W^ell!     I  never!"  Rosamond  exclaimed  hotly. 

"Anabeth  is  su-subject  to  hys-s-teria,"  Justinia 
explained,  as  if  all  Roseborough  did  not  know  it. 
Roseborough  held  pronounced  views  regarding  Ana- 
beth's  hysteria;  views  which  coincided  with  Blake's 
on  the  cavorting  of  Eve  and  the  remedy  for  it. 

Never  since  she  had  come  to  reside  in  Villa  Rose 
as  milady,  had  a  Roseborough  spinster  shown  Mrs. 
Mearely  anything  but  an  almost  sycophantic  homage. 
But  never  until  to-day  had  Mrs.  Mearely  clashed 
with  a  Roseborough  spinster's  hopes.  Words  and 
breath  left  her  as  she  saw  herself — so  recently  an 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      143 

object  of  adulation — confronted  with  one  dozen 
enemies. 

"For  my  part,  I'd  be  astounded  if  there  were  any- 
thing in  this/'  Miss  Graham  averred,  with  another 
tug  at  her  choker;  "because  I  can't  see  how  a  widow 
could  be  induced  to  hang  herself  a  second  time. 
Nothing — nothing  disgusts  me  like     . 

"It's  a  great  shock  to  all  of  us  to  see  you  in  colours 
again,"  Flora  Macdonald  MacMillan  broke  in. 
"In  all  your  days  of  mourning,  no  other  hearts  have 
beaten  in  such  unison  with  yours  as  ours.  We,  the 
girls  of  Roseborough,  have  felt  almost  as  if  we  were 
widows  with  you." 

"Yes,"  her  sister,  Jeanie  Deans,  chimed  in,  "the 
girls  of  Roseborough  loved  to  think  of  you  as  so 
beautiful  and  so  sad,  and  forever  alone." 

"Oh,  yes!  forever  alone  I"  Elspeth  concurred  em- 
phatically. 

"We  girls  have  often  talked  about  it,"  Maravene 
informed  her;  "we  just  love  to  picture  you  Hke  a 
mourning  dove     .     .     ." 

"A  fading  rose  is  what  /  always  say,  Maravene. 
I  think  it's  more  appropriate,  besides  sweeter,'* 
Constanza  interrupted. 

"I  know  you  do,  sister;  but  I  like  the  mourning 
dove  idea  better.     It's  lonesomer" 

Rosamond  emitted  an  indignant  sound  nearly 
related  to  a  snort. 


144      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  If  that  is  the  silly  way  you 
think  about  me,  you  can  just  give  it  up  right  now. 
It  is  time  for  me  to  put  on  ordinary  colours  and  I 
intend  to  wear  them — ^just  as  other  people  do.  I 
am  not  in  the  least  eager  to  meet  Mr.  Falcon,  except 
for  my  dear  Mrs.  Lee's  sake.  You  can  have  him,  for 
all  I  care  and — and  tear  him  to  bits  among  you! 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  is  quite  an  old  man — 
with  a  gray  beard — and  a  bald  head." 

"Oh— h!     No— o!" 

"Naturally — ^what  I  expected,"  Miss  Graham 
began.  "Nothing — nothing  .  .  ."  She  paused 
a  fraction  of  a  second  to  give  her  choker  the  usual 
masculine  tug,  and  Berthalin  and  Claribel  burst  in 
with: 

"Old .? — gray  ? — bald  ? — ^who  says  so .? " 

"Mrs.  Lee  says  so." 

"And  she  hasn't  seen  him  for  nearly  twenty  years," 
Palametta  ruminated.  "Oh,  come  now,  Mrs. 
Mearely!  Why  can't  you  be  as  frank  about  your 
interest  in  the  newcomer  as  we  are.f*  Tell  us  his 
real  age,"  she  tittered  icily. 

Rosamond's  bosom  swelled  and  her  hands  clenched 
as  the  flame  of  anger  scorched  her.  It  burned  the 
more  fiercely  because  she  was,  for  the  moment, 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the  spinsterial  dozen.  She 
could  not  force  them  to  believe  her:  nay,  it  would 
appear  that  the  only  way  to  change  the  "girls" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       145 

of  Roseborough  from  foes  into  friends  again  was  to 
return  to  the  raiment  of  Niobe. 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me.'* 
She  tried  to  say  it  with  the  dignity  of  the  Mearely 
name  and  Villa  Rose  behind  her;  "Mrs.  Witherby 
and  the  Wellses  and  Mrs.  Lee  are  coming  in  for 
cards  this  evening.  And  I  must  prepare  for  them. 
Amanda  and  Jemima  are  away  for  the  day,  and  I 
have  everything  to  ;.'o." 

*' Shall  you  wear  colours  at  Mrs.  Lee's  breakfast 
to-morrow?"  a  MacMillan  demanded. 

"Yes!  That  is  what  we  all  want  to  know,"  a 
Pelham-Hew  added. 

As  usual  Rosamond's  sense  of  humour  overcame 
her  anger. 

"I  will  compromise  the  matter  if  you  will  only  run 
away  now,  like  good  girls,"  she  answered,  laughing  a 
little  in  spite  of  herself.  "I  will  wear  white — no 
ribbons.  So  put  on  your  fanciest  sashes  and  catch 
the  poor  old  chap  fast  in  the  bow  knots." 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Mearely!"  Elspeth  MacMillan  ejacu- 
lated, catching  the  infection  of  Rosamond's  mirth, 
and  smiling.  "Of  course — ^we  only  meant — we 
think  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  another  man  at 
parties." 

"So  that  we  won't  always  have  to  dance  together 
all  our  lives,"  the  Pelham-Hews  choired. 

"Make  a  circle  around  him  and  pin  your  sash 


146      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

ends  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  maypole;  then,  at  the 
signal,  all  run  in  different  directions  and  see  which 
gets  him — or  the  biggest  piece  of  him." 

'*0h!  Mrs.  Mearely!"  every  one  but  Palametta 
(and,  of  course,  her  deaf  mother)  exclaimed  at  once. 
Rosamond's  bold  speech  had  made  them  feel  sHghtly 
absurd;  they  thought  it  best  to  laugh  it  off  and 
make  a  joke  of  the  whole  affair. 

"Anabeth  is  su-subject  to  hys-s-teria  so  that 
wh-hen  she  makes  a  je-jest  she  always  c-cries," 
Justinia  elucidated  tactfully. 

**Yes,"  Constanza  amended,  "we  are  not  really 
all  trying  to  catch  a  man  we've  never  seen." 

**And  may  not  like  when  we  have  seen  him!" 
Claribel  concluded. 

**Come  on,  girls,"  Imogen  boomed.  "Mrs. 
Mearely  wants  to  get  rid  of  us.  Let's  go  down  to 
Dollop's.  I'll  stand  treat  for  one  ginger  syrup  all 
around." 

"Oh,  goody!"  "Oh,  come  on!"  "Hooray!" 
"Imogen's  going  to  treat."  Her  offer  was  greeted 
with  the  shouts  of  joy  that  generally  follow  on  a 
treat,  especially  in  communities  like  Roseborough. 
The  seven  Pelham-Hews,  who  never  had  pennies  to 
spend  in  Dollop's,  rushed,  giggling,  down  the  steps 
and  scrambled  over  one  another  into  their  rig  for  all 
the  world  like  a  pan  of  dough  "raising."  The  Mac- 
Millans  followed  as  fast  as  was  consistent  with  the 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      147 

dignity  of  the  clan's  tartan.  Palametta  made  a 
point  of  lingering  to  offer  a  limp  handshake  and,  as 
her  fingers  slipped  away  and  her  head  tossed  and 
perked,  she  tittered  faintly. 

"If  she  te-he-hes  Uke  that  at  me  again  Til  box  her 
ears,"  Rosamond  vowed  inwardly.  An  inspiration 
came  to  her,  from  the  springs  of  her  naturally  im- 
pulsive generosity,  which  went  far  to  restore  her  to 
her  former  position  in  the  hearts  of  Roseborough's 
spinsters. 

**Wait,  wait,"  she  called.  "I'll  give  you  some 
bottles  of  Amanda's  parsnip  wine.  That  will  be 
better  than  Dollop's  syrup.  And  a  basket  full  of 
glasses  and  some  ginger  cookies,  and  you  can  pic- 
nic down  by  the  tower  in  that  little  nook  of  the 
slough." 

Not  delaying  for  more  than  the  first  "hooray,"  she 
caught  up  her  flower  basket  from  the  porch  and  ran 
into  the  kitchen.  To  fill  the  basket  with  glasses, 
cookies,  and  the  three  quart  bottles  was  the  work 
of  only  a  few  minutes.  She  confided  the  precious 
cargo  to  the  MacMillans  and  smilingly  waved  off 
her  now  friendly  guests,  who  departed  amid  subdued 
and  genteel  cheering.  Imogen  even  baritoned  the 
first  fine  of  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow,"  (substi- 
tuting "she"  of  course);  but  the  Pelham-Hews, 
turning  crimson  in  an  agony  of  hurt  refinement, 
begged  her  to  desist. 


148      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

The  gate  clicked  behind  the  spinsterical  cortege; 
and  five  o'clock  rang  from  the  tower. 

Rosamond  went  indoors  and  set  out  the  plates  for 
her  supper. 

By  the  slough,  where  the  spinsters  of  Rosebor- 
ough  picnicked,  the  reeds  and  rushes  were  now  silent 
and  still,  save  where  the  light  breeze  passed;  though 
there  was  a  trail  of  freshly  crushed  and  broken  ones, 
where  something  heavier  than  the  breeze  had  made 
its  way  through.  One  individual  besides  the  toll- 
man saw  the  black-suited,  black-whiskered  stranger 
that  afternoon.  Johnson,  the  butcher's  boy,  en- 
countered him  in  a  lane  almost  directly  behind  the 
two  neighbouring  cottages  where  lived  Mr.  Horace 
Ruggle  and  Miss  Jenny's  mother,  Mrs.  Hackensee. 
Mrs.  Hackensee  occupied  the  front  of  her  cottage  and 
rented  the  two  back  rooms,  overlooking  the  river, 
to  Dr.  Frei,  the  young  musician  who  had  come  to 
Roseborough  within  the  last  few  weeks.  "Dr. 
Frei,  Violin  Instructor"  said  the  written  placard 
on  his  door. 

Johnson  nursed  an  intense  dislike  for  aliens;  he 
**  suspected  'em  of  plottin'  agin  the  guver-mint." 
Dr.  Frei  was  an  alien,  and  Johnson  told  Mrs.  Wither- 
by's  day  maid,  Hannah  Ann,  that  he  suspected  the 
black-whiskered  man  of  being  in  a  plot  with  Dr. 
Frei  to  blow  up  the  Roseborough  gaol  or  the  bell 
tower  "or  sump'n";  because,  when  he  turned  about 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      149 

at  the  end  of  the  lane  for  a  second  look,  the  stranger 
had  disappeared !  After  he  had  left  her,  Hannah 
Ann  was  in  a  seriously  overwrought  condition;  and 
so  Mrs.  Witherby  found  her  when  she  returned  from 
her  drive.  Such  was  Mrs.  Witherby's  own  tempera- 
ment, that  it  was  not  long  before  mistress  and  maid 
were  in  the  same  state  of  mind.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Witherby  was  obHged  to  forego  her  customary  glass 
of  stout  at  dinner,  because  Hannah  Ann  refused  to 
descend  alone  to  the  cellar  for  it  and  Mrs.  Witherby 
would  not  allow  her  daughter  Corinne  to  accom- 
pany her.  Mabel  Crewe,  her  niece,  was  not  afraid, 
but  she  had  turned  sulky  and  bitter  under  her  aunt's 
jibes  on  Wilton  Howard's  account.  She  revenged 
herself,  therefore,  by  mocking  at  Mrs.  Witherby's 
fears  and  by  making  her  go  without  her  ale. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ROSAMOND  brought  out  the  roast  chicken  again 
and  made  another  meal  of  it  with  milk  and  bread 
and  butter.  His  Friggets  would  have  raised  a  great 
to-do  if  they  had  known  how  slimly  their  distin- 
guished master's  widow  had  lunched  and  dined  during 
their  absence.  She  cleared  away  her  own  few  dishes 
quickly  and  put  the  contents  of  her  larder  on  the 
dining-room  table.  It  looked  a  very  respectable 
collation  when  set  off  with  the  Mearely  crockery  and 
silver. 

"I  shan't  lay  the  table,"  she  decided,  "because 
they  never  want  to  sit  down  at  the  same  time.  They 
can  wander  in  and  out  as  they  like  between  games, 
and  help  themselves  to  plates  and  forks  and  so  on." 

Blake,  who  was  gardener  as  well  as  coachman, 
except  in  the  seeding  season,  had  brought  in  fresh 
lettuce  already  before  he  had  set  out  to  Trenton; 
and,  as  His  Friggets  kept  a  supply  of  their  very  excel- 
lent mayonnaise  always  on  hand,  the  big  bowl  of 
chicken  salad  was  soon  made.  She  took  another 
peep  at  Dom  Paradis's  cake,  and  felt  a  just  pride  in 
its  smooth,  snow-white  beauty. 

"If  I  can't  stand  Villa  Rose,  in  the  end  I  can  al- 

150 


''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!''      151 

ways  go  and  be  somebody's  cake-maker."  She 
consoled  herself  with  this  thought  as  she  ran  up- 
stairs to  dress  herself  in  one  of  the  costliest  gowns  in 
her  wardrobe. 

This  was  the  rose-and-silver  garment  taken  from 
the  chest  in  the  morning  and  hung  upon  the  Louis 
chair  under  linen  covers.  She  disposed  the  lilac- 
bud  silk  in  the  carved  mahogany  closet,  against  the 
morrow.  As  she  exchanged  her  embroidery  petti- 
coat for  one  of  organdie  and  Valenciennes,  it  did  not 
occur  to  her  to  ask  herself  how  she  would  like  to  have 
to  dress  in  future  on  a  cake-maker's  wages.  Her 
rapid  fingers,  removing  hair  pins,  let  down  the  massy 
bright  waves  of  her  hair  which  separated  into  ring- 
lets just  above  her  waist.  It  was  not  a  pure  yellow 
gold,  that  thick  waving  fall  of  hair;  it  was  mingled 
with  Hght  brown  and  reddish  tints,  which  made  the 
whole,  when  pyramided  in  curls  on  her  small  head, 
as  vital,  brilliant,  alluring,  and  indefinable  as  the 
inner  nature  of  its  owner.  It  was  hair  that  in  its 
variety  of  shades  was  truly  indicative  of  milady's 
mercurial  spirit;  for  even  her  occasional  sobriety  of 
mood  resembled  the  sober  brown  strands  that 
twisted  in  with  the  auburn  and  gold  threads;  it  was 
a  sobriety  inclined  to  curl.  Her  own  complaint 
about  her  hair  was  that  it  never  look  combed.  Five 
minutes  after  she  had  demurely  parted  it  in  the  centre 
the  parting  would  disappear  and  the  glistening  waves. 


152      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

mocking  the  damp  brush's  authority,  would  rise 
and  undulate  and  interlace  again  at  their  pleasure. 

She  was  in  a  hurry  this  evening  and  so  let  her 
curls  please  themselves,  looping  the  ends  through 
an  antique  circular  Spanish  comb  of  pale  gold  and 
seed  pearls.  She  shook  the  dress  out  lovingly. 
She  had  never  worn  it. 

Slowly,  so  that  none  of  the  small  raptures  of  sliding 
silk  should  be  missed,  she  let  it  descend,  enveloping 
her,  carefully  keeping  it  from  touching  her  hair,  till 
it  skirted  her  ankles  evenly  and  her  face  looked  over 
the  top  and  flushed  with  pleasure  to  see  itself  so 
framed. 

The  material  was  a  stifF  silk  of  a  quality  too  old 
for  her  if  the  colour  and  make  of  the  gown  had  been 
different;  but  the  rich  shade,  that  was  a  rose-old- 
rose — neither  so  placid  as  old  rose  nor  so  positive 
as  pink — and  the  semi-pompadour  fashion  combined 
with  the  weave  (which  would  "stand  by  itself") 
made  her  look  quaint.  She  was  neither  of  one 
period  nor  another,  nor  was  her  gown  old  or  young. 
The  picture  presented  was  radiant  young  woman- 
hood of  all  time  in  its  perfection.  The  gown  had  a 
partial  overdress  of  dull  silver  gossamer,  finished  in  a 
broad  silver  lace,  in  which  the  vine  figure  was  worked 
in  a  brighter  silver,  toned  again  by  gray-green  leaves 
in  the  clusters.  The  short  sleeves  were  of  the 
gossamer  over  rose  net,  fitted  sheerly  and  smoothly 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      153 

to  the  arm.  A  cufF  of  the  lace  turned  back  from  the 
elbow.  A  gossamer  and  lace  collar  stood  up  from 
the  back  of  the  bodice,  which  was  cut  in  a  narrow 
low  square  in  front.  There  were  touches  of  rose  in 
the  pattern  of  the  lace  of  the  collar;  reversely,  the 
narrow,  smooth,  stiff,  rose  girdle  had  silver  eyelet 
holes  and  a  hint  of  the  vine  tracery.  Rose  stockings 
and  silver  shoes,  with  buckles  made  of  clusters  of 
tiny  roses,  completed  her  costume. 

She  surveyed  herself  for  some  time  with  a  delight 
that  needed  no  formulated  thought  to  express  it. 
When  she  could  endure  parting  with  the  vision  the 
Orleans  mirror  gave  her,  she  tossed  a  white  wrap  over 
her  and  went  downstairs.     Presently  she  giggled. 

"Oh,  wouldn't  the  Pelham-Hews  and  Palametta 
and  The  Kilties"  (her  name  for  the  MacMillans) 
"rave  if  I  were  to  go  to  Mr.  Falcon's  breakfast  in 
this  glorious  thing!  They  needn't  worry.  I  shall 
be  a  dowd  to-morrow.  But  to-night!  The  shock 
may  kill  Mrs.  Witherby — and  incite  Mr.  Andrews 
and  the  Judge — but  I'll  end  my  Wonderful  Day  in 
splendour,  even  if  it  must  be  lonely  splendour." 
Whatever  rashness  her  gown  proclaimed,  she  would 
refuse  censure  for  it;  it  was  her  right  to  dare  all 
things  on  her  Wonderful  Day,  which  could  not  be 
said  to  have  passed  until  midnight  struck. 

The  six  o'clock  bell,  the  last  one  to  toll  for  the 
day,  had  rung  ere  she  left  the  mirror. 


154      "GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

The  fall  of  gold  light  through  the  clear  air  of  the 
valley,  with  the  western  sky  giving  just  a  hint  of 
sunset  and  the  river  shining  Hke  molten  glass,  wooed 
her  to  the  garden  again.  Some  of  the  little  annuals 
had  already  closed  their  eyes  for  the  night.  The 
insects  and  birds  were  on  homeward  flight.  She 
went  on,  to  the  incline  where  the  orchard  began. 
From  a  point,  here,  she  could  look  down  at  the 
gleaming  river  with  the  picture  framed  in  arching 
boughs.  She  found  something  mystical  in  this 
view  and  loved  it  above  all  others,  especially  at  this 
hour,  when  the  last  yellow  rays  fell  like  a  slanting 
mist  and  the  shadowed  spaces  under  the  huge  apple 
trees  were  cool  and  dark. 

She  stood  there  for  some  time  in  deep,  calm  enjoy- 
ment. It  came  to  her  then,  as  it  had  done  before  on 
such  evenings,  that  the  few  small-minded  inhabit- 
ants, with  their  petty  jealousies,  were  less  than  the 
gravel  on  the  hillroad  that  rattled  to  the  passing 
wheel.  There  was  indeed  a  spirit  of  Roseborough, 
but  the  communal  spirit  was  only  a  poor  counterfeit 
of  it.  Professor  Lee  and  his  wife  had  found  that 
pure  and  perfect  spirit  and  translated  it  into  human 
life.  It  was  here  for  her  also  to  find  and  make  her 
own.  It  grew  out  of  Roseborough's  earth  with 
its  abundant  flowers  and  trees.  It  was  in  its  clear 
air,  with  the  radiance  of  its  light  and  of  the  wings 
that  darted  and  floated  and  bathed  themselves  in 


"  Regarding  each  other  and  yielding  to  the  charm  of  the 
sunset  and  the  music,  they  did  not  observe  a  black-whiskered 
man  who  was  crawling  through  the  orchard  " 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      155 

it.  The  river  bore  it  upon  its  waters,  and  the  moving 
reeds  sang  of  it  by  night  and  day.  When  the  valley 
and  hills  slept,  that  spirit  soared  to  the  domain  of 
the  moon  and  the  stars  and  kept  watch  with  them. 

"I  couldn't  be  happy  anywhere  else,"  Rosamond 
said  to  herself.  ** There  is  something  about  this 
valley  that  is  a  part  of  me.  But  it  is  hard  to  Hve 
here,  so  close  to  earth,  without  love.  Roseborough 
was  made  for  love.  That  is  what  ails  us  all — 
Palametta,  and  The  Kilties  and  the  Pelham-Hews 
and — and — Rosamond  Mearely!  Well,  I  hope  the 
old  bald  thing  will  marry  Anabeth  and  then  she'll 
stop  that  crying  every  time  a  man  is  mentioned." 

The  change  to  humour  was  only  momentary,  for 
the  spell  of  Roseborough  at  this  hour  was  too  pro- 
found to  be  put  off  with  Hghtness.  Rosamond 
yielded  to  it,  because  she  must.  That  mood  was 
hers  which  only  Nature,  or  a  pure  art,  can  give — a 
yearning  that  blended  peace  and  sadness,  and  which 
made  rich  by  what  it  withheld — a  desire  that  was  a 
deeper  happiness  than  completion  could  be. 

Into  her  silent  reverie  strains  of  music  crept. 
Soft,  thin,  but  mellow  under  a  lover's  touch,  they 
came  from  the  muted  strings  of  a  violin.  The  player 
was  coming  nearer,  and  from  the  upper  end  of  the 
orchard.  It  was  no  surprise  to  her  now  to  find 
Dr.  Frei  using  her  orchard  as  his  concert  hall. 
Dr.    Frei    had    tested     Roseborough's     communal 


156      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

spirit  from  the  first  day  of  his  arrival;  for  he  chose 
to  consider  that  all  Roseborough  shared  with  him 
whatever  it  possessed — gladly,  lovingly.  Rose- 
borough,  taken  off  guard  by  the  quixotic  confidence 
reposed  in  her,  had  responded  in  kind.  Instead  of 
looking  the  stranger  over  through  her  lorgnettes 
ad  lib.,  she  had  returned  his  instant  greeting  and 
opened  her  heart  to  him  with  a  warmth  that  amazed 
herself,  though  the  recipient  of  her  favour  appeared 
to  see  nothing  unusual  in  it. 

"I  wonder  if  he  has  been  playing  to  Mrs.  Lee.?" 
was  Rosamond's  mental  query. 

In  playing  to  Mrs.  Lee,  Dr.  Frei  had  first  intro- 
duced himself  to  Roseborough.  One  bright  spring 
morning,  hearing  strange,  delectable  sounds,  Mrs. 
Lee  had  hastened  into  her  tiny  garden  and — 
found  a  young  man  sitting  by  the  well  playing  a 
violin.  A  Trenton  carter  sat  on  his  wagon  beyond 
the  gate,  eating  his  way  through  a  loaf  of  bread. 
The  cart  was  piled  high  with  small  luggage.  The 
violinist  had  risen,  at  sight  of  her,  bowed  profoundly, 
kissed  her  hand  with  emotion,  explained  himself  as 
a  concert  violinist  whose  health  had  failed  under  the 
strain  of  public  appearance,  and  begged  leave  to 
live  in  her  cottage.  This  she  finally  convinced  him, 
to  his  great  annoyance,  was  not  to  be. 

**But  I  honour  you  when  I  say  I  wish  to  live  in 
your  home!"  he  had  exclaimed,  autocratically.     **It 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      157 

is  not  to  be  argued.  I  have  decided."  He  pointed 
to  the  carter  and  the  portmanteaux. 

He  was  not  insane,  she  had  become  comfortably 
assured  of  that,  though  he  was  undeniably  eccen- 
tric. In  the  end  she  had  sent  him  with  a  note  to 
Mrs.  Hackensee,  asking  that  he  be  cared  for  as  a 
dear  young  stranger  who  had  brought  to  Rose- 
borough,  not  only  his  great  talent,  but  also  his 
beautiful  faith  in  human  goodness. 

From  that  moment  Dr.  Frei  had  waited  for  no 
introductions  or  invitations.  If  a  Roseborough  door 
stood  open,  he  entered  it;  and  told  those  within 
that  he  was  rejoiced  to  be  among  them.  If  the 
inmates  were  breakfasting,  lunching,  or  supping,  he 
pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  table  and  waited  to  be 
served  as  naturally  as  if  he  were  a  member  of  the 
family. 

"Would  you  believe  that  this  is  the  one  spot  on 
earth  where  I  could  do  this?"  he  would  say.  **Yet 
it  is  so.  It  is  your  spirit.  It  is  Roseborough. 
Roseborough  restores  my  soul." 

VioHn  in  hand,  he  had  walked  in  upon  their  mother 
and  the  seven  Pelham-Hews  at  eight  o^clock  one 
morning  in  house-cleaning  time.  Some  of  the 
septet  were  on  ladders  and  on  chairs  with  mops 
and  with  dusters,  rubbing  the  paper  down  or  clean- 
ing the  pictures;  and  others  were  beating  cushions 
or   mattresses   and   generally  translating  the  word 


158      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

home  into  horror.  Thinking  that  nothing  but 
financial  ruin  or  a  death  from  infectious  disease 
could  make  such  an  upheaval  necessary,  and  eager 
to  offer  the  only  consolation  in  his  power — a  tender, 
wordless  sympathy — he  had  seated  himself  on  a 
rolled  mattress  and  played  to  them  for  two  hours 
without  cessation;  then,  with  tender  looks,  taken 
his  departure. 

"I,  too,  have  the  spirit.  I,  too,  belong  to  Rose- 
borough,"  was  all  that  he  said,  as  he  waved  them 
a  majestic  farewell  from  the  door.  Thinking  him 
mad,  not  a  Pelham-Hew  had  dared  to  move  or 
speak  during  the  recital.  Anabeth,  whose  foot 
had  gone  to  sleep,  fell  off  the  ladder  as  soon  as  he 
had  gone  and  struck  her  funny-bone,  the  accident 
resulting  in  severe  hysterics. 

He  had  made  himself  equally  free  of  the  house  and 
grounds  of  Villa  Rose.  Though,  before  others,  his 
manner  to  the  Villa's  lady  was  formal,  he  expressed, 
in  private,  the  intimate  affection  of  a  brother.  Her 
widowhood  appealed  to  his  chivalry;  and  her  black 
ribbons,  he  said,  put  out  the  sun  for  him;  how 
had  the  anomaly  of  grief  entered  Roseborough  and 
how  had  it  attached  itself  to  her? 

"In  me  you  have  always  a  brother,  a  friend,  a 
protector,"  he  would  say.  "What  privilege  of 
manhood  is  more  to  be  envied  than  the  right  to 
shelter  women?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      159 

She  saw  him  now,  and  perceived  that  he  had 
already  seen  her  and  was  playing  to  her — the  minuet 
she  loved.  He  came  slowly  down  the  path,  his 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  her,  a  smile  about  the  lips  that 
were  too  finely  and  sensitively  formed  for  a  man's 
mouth. 

Regarding  each  other  and  yielding  to  the  charm 
of  the  sunset  and  the  music,  they  did  not  observe 
a  black-whiskered  man  who  was  crawling  through 
the  orchard  and  hiding  from  time  to  time  behind 
the  broad  tree  trunks.  He  was  observing  them, 
however,  minutely. 

Frei  paused  beside  her.  They  did  not  speak 
until  the  exquisite  melody  was  ended.  He  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"Rosamond."  It  was  his  habit  to  address  her 
so,  because — so  he  said — the  sound  of  her  name  was 
like  music. 

"Your  music  supplies  the  only  thing  that  this 
wonderful  scene  lacked,"  she  said — "melody!" 

"You  are  moved.  How  beautiful  your  eyes  and 
lips  are  when  feeling  stirs  you!  I  have  often  re- 
marked it.  It  is  Hke  a  wind  in  the  rose  garden 
to-night,  because  you  are  a  rose.  I  can  see  rose 
petals  under  that  white  cloud.     Remove  your  cloak." 

She  slipped  it  oflT  and  hung  it  on  the  gate.  Not 
until  she  had  done  so,  did  it  occur  to  her  that  she 
had  obeyed  a  command,  given  with  an  authority 


i6o      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

which  was  inborn  and  unconscious  that  such  a  thing 
as  opposition  existed  in  the  human  breast. 

"If  I  could  compose  a  melody  noble,  tender, 
wistful.  .  .  .  Ah!  I  lack  the  words  to  describe  it! 
But  if  I  could  compose  it  I  would  call  it  *  Rosamond.' " 

"And  dedicate  it  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  royal  high- 
ness.'' 

He  frowned. 

"Not  at  all!"  he  asserted  almost  with  violence. 
**I  compose  no  masterpieces  for  royal  highnesses. 
Royal  highnesses  are  ugly  and  artificial.  But  you! 
Fair  Rosamond,  they  tell  me — Miss  Watts,  I  think 
it  was,  told  me  last — that  you  were  born  on  the 
farm.  'Farm  product,'  she  called  you.  Your 
mother.         .     ." 

"Made  and  sold  butter!  I  am  sure  all  Rose- 
borough  has  informed  you  of  that!" 

"Ah,  yes!"  eagerly.  "Almost  every  lady  here — 
knowing  by  intuition  how  I  would  regard  it — has 
told  me  this.  And  to  each  I  have  expressed  my 
delight.  Butter!  how  fragrant — how  mellow!  It  is 
for  you  the  perfect  origin.  Clover  and  hay  and  the 
sweet  things  of  earth!  Butter!  It  enraptures  me 
to  think  your  childish  hands  played  in  the  churn 
with  what  Nature  alone  had  produced."  He  caught 
her  hands  and  kissed  them  fervently. 

"So  that  is  how  you  think  of  it?"  she  smiled. 

"Hush;  I  wish  to  play  you  the  little  Tschaikowsky." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      i6i 

He  leaned  his  head  over  the  instrument  again 
and  began  to  play.  Watching  him,  she  noted  the 
whitening  temple-locks  against  the  coal  black  of 
his  hair  where  it  had  not  turned,  and  the  lines  in  his 
thin,  dark-skinned  face,  and  wondered  what  sorrow  had 
written  these  marks  of  age  upon  so  young  a  man. 

"I  am  thirty-five,"  he  had  once  said  to  her.  "I 
tell  you  only  what  all  the  world  knows."  This  last 
was  a  pet  phrase  of  his  in  relating  details  about 
himself.  She  understood  by  it  that,  in  some  bril- 
liant circle  far  from  Roseborough,  he  had  been  a 
concert  artist  of  note. 

When  the  little  air  was  ended,  she  said: 

"I  have  learned  the  accompaniment  to  that. 
We  will  play  it  this  evening.  You  have  heard  from 
Mrs.  Lee  that  I  am  having  a  few  guests  for  an  hour  or 
so  this  evening." 

"No!  I  have  not  heard.  I  went  just  now  to 
play  for  Mrs.  Lee,  whom  I  love  with  a  reverent  af- 
fection. But  I  saw  through  the  windows  that 
she  had  a  woman  there,  and  oh,  such  a  running 
hither  and  thither  with  towels  and  candles  and  so 
forth!  So  I  stole  silently  away.  I  will  come,  dear 
Rosamond,  and  we  will  play.  But  now  I  must  go 
home  to  Miitterlein  Hackensee,  who  will  have  made 
a  simple  but  perfect  meal  for  me.  She  will  be  so 
distressed  that  I  am  not  there  to  eat  it  fresh  from 
her  hands." 


i62      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"I  see  Mr.  Andrews  coming  over  the  top  of  the 
hill.  If  you  wait  a  moment  you  will  just  catch  him 
below  the  wall  here,  and  he  will  drive  you  home." 

**Ah!  So?  That  is  excellent.  Rosamond,  to- 
day, an  hour  ago,  perhaps,  I  made  a  wonderful 
discovery.  I  felt  like  some  poor  simple-minded 
peasant  who  finds  a  sacred  relic.  I,  also,  wished  to 
kneel,  in  awe  and  joy,  before  a  holy  thing  which  I 
could  not  understand  because  my  mind  could  not 
grasp  it.  You  are  my  dear  sister  and  my  spiritual 
kin,  and  to  you  I  will  tell  what  I  found." 

"What?     Tell  me,"  she  said  gently. 

"I  discovered  that  I  am  Richard  Frei — a  man, 
like  any  other  man;  and  that  I  may  love  and  marry 
— Hke  any  man.  The  amazement  of  it  has  over- 
whelmed me." 

The  rapt  intensity  in  his  eyes  forbade  her  to  smile. 
With  a  spontaneous  movement  of  sympathy  she 
slipped  her  hand  into  his  arm. 

"But  why  does  that  amaze  you?  The  right  to 
love  is  given  to  every  man — to  all  the  world.  It  has 
always  been  so." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  few  moments; 
a  sensitive  quiver  passed  over  his  face  and  his  eyes 
filled. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly.  "It  is  true — 
that  strange,  wonderful  thing  you  have  said  there. 
It  is  given  to  every  man  to  love  one  woman  and  to 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      163 

be  loved  by  her.  Oh,  marvellous!  I  can  no  longer 
believe  that  once  I  saw  men  who  had  not  known  the 
feehng  of  gratitude." 

She  pressed  his  arm  kindly,  but  did  not  try  to 
speak. 

Mr.  Andrews'  cart  wheels  sounded  near  by.  Rosa- 
mond withdrew  her  hand  then,  and  smiHngly  re- 
minded him: 

"You'll  have  to  run  to  catch  him.  His  nag 
always  canters  down  hill.     It  has  cast-iron  knees." 

"Adieu.  Till  to-night."  He  ran  through  the 
slanting  orchard  toward  the  wall,  calling  back  to  her 
twice : 

"To-night,"  and,  "later,  I  come." 

She  watched  him  disappear  among  the  trees,  and 
presently  heard  the  cart  stop,  then  go  on  again. 

The  last  russet  gold  of  sunset  and  the  gray  and 
purple  of  oncoming  twilight  mingled  over  the  gleam- 
ing river.     One  star  shone  high  above  Villa  Rose. 

"It  is  night  now,"  she  thought,  as  she  looked  at 
the  star.  "My  Wonderful  Day  is  ended.  And  he 
never  came  to  say,  *Good-morning,  Rosamond!'" 

Turning,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Lee's 
dove-gray  dress.  She  went  up  the  path  to  meet 
her.  Together  they  walked  across  the  garden 
and  into  Villa  Rose. 

The  black-whiskered  man,  stooping  among  the 
shadows,  stole  to  the  gate  and  watched  Rosamond 


i64      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

until  she  disappeared.  Then  he  disposed  himself 
comfortably  on  the  grass  under  a  pear  tree  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hat.  Anon  his  heavy 
breathing  and  zizz-z-zing  told  the  rival  locusts  and 
crickets  that  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

INDUSTRIOUS  lady!  You  have  brought  fancy 
work  of  some  kind!"  Rosamond  pointed  to  the 
little  crocheted  bag  hanging  from  the  older  woman's 
wrist. 

**0h,  no.  Just  a  bit  of  lace  I'm  mending.  What 
an  exquisite  twilight.  It  seems  a  pity  to  turn  on 
artificial  light.  Your  lighting  scheme  is  very  beau- 
tiful; but,  nevertheless,  I've  always  wondered  that 
Mr.  Mearely  did  not  keep  to  candles.  They  seem 
more  harmonious  with  his  antiques.  Electricity  is 
so  modern." 

"Mr.  Mearely  thought  that  electric  light  was  a 
great  protection.  He  used  to  say  that  a  burglar 
might  come  into  the  house,  and  clear  out  with  the 
most  priceless  of  his  antiques,  while  he  himself  was 
hunting  for  the  intruder  with  a  candle,  and  that  a 
draught,  or  even  the  burglar  himself,  might  blow 
out  the  candle;  but  that,  with  electric  light,  one 
need  only  turn  a  button  and  the  guilty  party  would 
be  discovered  and  confounded.  It  was  his  theory 
that  a  sudden  blaze  of  light  always  frightens  wrong- 
doers." 

Mrs.  Lee  was  composing  herself  on  the  large  settee 

165 


i66      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r 

near  the  fireplace.  She  exchanged  her  ordinary 
glasses  for  her  "fine  work"  spectacles  and,  setting 
thimble,  scissors,  and  thread  on  the  little  table  at 
the  end  of  the  settee,  she  drew  out  of  the  bag  a  small, 
circular  frame  holding  the  kerchief  she  was  darn- 
ing. 

"Personally,  I  think  he  really  wanted  his  art  ob- 
jects properly  lit  up  at  night,  so  that  he  could  sit 
in  his  swivel  chair  and  look  at  them  all  in  turn." 
Rosamond  turned  on  the  last  of  the  Httle,  separate 
lamps.  Then  she  opened  a  drawer  in  her  inlaid 
desk  at  the  back  of  the  room,  near  the  door  to  the 
music  room,  and  took  out  a  pack  of  cards. 

"I  think  this  is  the  pack  they  had  last.  Mrs. 
Witherby  is  very  hard  on  cards — especially  when 
she  is  losing.     She  tears  the  edges  with  her  teeth." 

"An  intense  nature,  poor  dear  woman.  Her 
married  life,  though  otherwise  ideal,  I  fear  was 
stormy.  She  was  wildly  jealous,  poor  soul;  without 
cause,  I'm  sure.  I  know  Mr.  Witherby  came  to  my 
husband  for  advice  about  it.  *Tell  me,  for  heaven's 
sake,  what  to  do  with  Emma,'  he  said.  He  was 
distracted." 

Rosamond  giggled. 

"He  should  have  asked  Blake.  Blake  has  very 
practical  ideas." 

"Has  he?  I  can  hear  you  laughing,  so  I  know 
you're   at   some   mischief.     But  I  will  say,   never- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      167 

theless,  that  I  believe  humble  peasant  folk,  like 
Blake  and  his  kind,  have  many  simple,  natural 
ideas  that  would  benefit  all  of  us.  Peasant  unions 
are  frequently  happier  than  the  marriages  of  intel- 
lectuals. For  all  your  laughing,  I  dare  say  Blake 
could  have  given  Mr.  Witherby  good  advice." 

Rosamond  giggled  again. 

**He  could!  excellent  advice!  *Hemma  ud  a-ben 
a  different  'ooman  if  Timothy  Blake  had  'ad  'er,' " 
she  concluded,  in  fair  mimicry  of  the  discipHnarian's 
dialect. 

"My  dear  husband  told  him  there  was  nothing  he 
could  do  with  Emma,  but  let  time  and  patience  prove 
her  own  folly  to  her.  The  poor  man  did  not  live 
long,  and  I  dare  say  she  has  often  regretted  her 
tantrums.  I'm  afraid  a  good  many  married  couples 
do  have  these  times  with  each  other.  The  only 
things  I  ever  scolded  Professor  Lee  for  were  giving 
so  much  money  away,  and  being  so  unpunctual 
at  meals;  and  that  was  only  because  these  were 
both  so  bad  for  him.  But  though  his  generosity 
did  bring  us  to  very  slender  means  and  a  tiny  cot- 
tage, we  had  enough  for  our  needs  after  all;  and  I 
wouldn't  really  have  changed  his  nature,  in  this 
respect,  if  I  could.  It  is  something  of  a  problem  to 
be  both  liberal  and  cautious  at  the  same  time;  and 
I  confess  the  Lees  never  solved  that  problem." 
She  laughed. 


i68      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Rosamond,  finding  that  a  ten-spot  was  so  torn 
that  its  identity  could  not  be  hidden  from  any 
player  who  had  once  held  it,  was  seeking  through  the 
desk  for  another  pack. 

"Look,  Mrs.  Lee!"  she  called;  "Look  and  tremble." 

"Dear  me,  what  is  it.?"  Mrs.  Lee  turned  and  tried 
to  peer  across  the  room  through  her  "fine  work" 
spectacles.     "It's  all  a  blur  to  me." 

"This!"  Rosamond  came  over  and  stood  beside 
her  with  something  gleaming  in  her  hand.  "An 
engine  of  destruction." 

"Good  heavens,  child!  a  revolver?  I  do  hope  it  is 
not  loaded."  She  drew  back  in  trepidation  from 
the  shining  toy  with  its  mother-of-pearl  handle. 
Rosamond  laughed. 

"It's  a  kind  of  revolver.  It's  a  pistol.  And  it 
is  loaded ! " 

"Dear,  dear.  What  for?  Are  you  afraid  of 
marauders?  Perhaps  having  all  these  valuable 
art  objects  in  the  house  makes  you  nervous;  but  I 
am  sure  there  is  no  need  of  pistols.  Roseborough 
never  has  experiences  of  that  sort." 

"No,"  she  laughed.  "I'm  not  afraid.  I  remem- 
ber I  took  it  with  me  two  weeks  ago,  when  Wilton 
and  I  went  riding  with  Miss  Crewe  and  Corinne  into 
the  other  valley  beyond  Charleroy.  I  wanted  to 
prove  to  him  that  I  could  hit  objects  at  a  certain 
distance.     And  I  did.     Mr.  Mearely  taught  me  to 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      i6g 

shoot  and  he  said  I  had  a  straight  eye.  He  was  a 
crack  shot  himself,  you  know.  I  remember  now 
that  I  put  it  in  that  drawer  when  we  all  came  in 
for  tea.  Amanda  made  such  a  fuss  about  my  keeping 
it  upstairs.  She  seemed  to  think  I  would  get  up 
and  commit  suicide  in  my  sleep.  I  wanted  to  teach 
the  two  girls  to  fire  it,  but  they  wouldn't  learn,  and 
they  screamed  every  time  I  popped  it  off.  So  it 
wasn't  a  very  successful  shooting-party." 

She  returned  to  the  desk  and  slipped  the  pistol 
back  into  its  drawer. 

"I  think  ril  put  this  new  pack  in  an  envelope  and 
write  on  the  outside  *  Losers  should  not  bite.'  If  I 
indulged  in  Mrs.  Witherby's  manners,  she'd  be  the 
first  to  say  that  nothing  else  was  to  be  expected  from 
a  farm  urchin!  But,  in  her,  they  are  a  sign  of  the 
aristocrat's  fiery  soul!  Pooh!"  She  put  the  cards 
in  the  centre  of  the  large  table. 

"It  is  incredible  to  me  how  any  one  so  beautiful 
as   you    are    to-night  can   be   so   naughty!     I    had 

almost  said "     Mrs.  Lee  paused  and  looked  with 

mock  severity  over  her  glasses. 

"What?"  with  airy  defiance. 

"'Spiteful,'  was  the  word  I  almost  said." 

"I  thought  you  did  say  it!"  The  unrepentant 
one  tiptoed  over  and  kissed  her. 

"Well,  if  I  did,  I  might  better  have  kept  my  breath 
to  cool  my  porridge,  as  the  country  folk  say.     My 


I70      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

wise  rebukes  do  not  seem  to  benefit  you  in  the  least 
to-day." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  scold,  for  I  baked  Dom — I 
mean,  Mr.  Falcon's  cake,  and  it  is  a  marvel  of  fla- 
voured architecture.  It  looks  like  a  new  Parthenon — 
with  raisin  and  fig  filling." 

"Then  no  wonder  you  will  not  take  reproof  from 
me!  And  I  suppose  you  would  say  I  am  an  ungrate- 
ful old  woman  to  attempt  to  scold  you.  Very  well. 
You  shall  be  as  wicked  as  ever  you  please." 

"And  when  I  have  set  all  Roseborough  by  the  ears, 
you  will  come  and  straighten  things  out  for  me?" 

"Oh,  surely!"     She  smiled. 

"Hark!  The  first  carriage  wheels.  It  will  be  the 
Wellses.  They  always  arrive  first  because  they  have 
farthest  to  come."  Rosamond  ran  to  the  verandah. 
"They  are  not  very  far  ahead  this  evening,  though; 
because  Mrs.  Witherby's  barouche  is  just  behind." 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Lee  heard  her  exchanging  good- 
evenings  with  the  arrivals.  Then  Dr.  Wells's 
deliberate  but  hearty  voice  greeted  her  from  the 
steps. 

"Ah!  there  is  Mrs.  Lee.  Well!  Well!  What  an 
honour!  Though,  as  the  one  man  in  Roseborough 
who  is  responsible  for  the  health  of  the  community — 
even  as  our  Mrs.  Witherby  is  responsible  for  its 
morals  here,  and  the  vicar  for  its  status  hereafter, 
te-he-he — I  ought  to  order  you  home  to  bed  at  once. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      171 

Anyone  of  your  young  years  should  be  asleep  at  this 
hour,  especially  when  you  keep  up  the  habit  of 
rising  at  daybreak." 

Dr.  Wells  seldom  spoke  without  making  a  little 
oration.  He  was  wont  to  say  that  he  took  his  own 
time  about  everything  because,  the  time  being  his 
own,  he  knew  he  had  plenty  of  it,  and  no  one  else  had 
the  right  to  call  him  to  account  for  his  expenditure 
of  it.  That  he  frequently  forced  others  to  spend  a 
great  deal  of  their  own  time,  in  Hstening  to  him  wind 
away  from  exordium  to  peroration,  was  a  point  he 
did  not  take  into  his  consideration.  He  was  a  fine 
specimen  of  a  fine  type,  namely  the  country  doctor 
of  the  old  school  who  was  constantly  to  be  seen  in 
all  weathers  carrying  hope  and  pills,  human  affection 
and  gray  powders,  camomile  and  cheer,  into  anxious 
homes,  and  caring  far  less  about  his  fee  than  about 
the  patient's  relief.  He  was  short  and  stocky — a 
deep-chested,  stout,  sound,  and  roll-shaped  body, 
every  hard  layer  of  fat-protected  gristle  daring 
weather  and  disease  to  come  on  and  see  what  would 
happen  to  them.  Nature  had  formed  him  to  be  a 
country  physician;  for  country  folk  put  their  faith 
only  in  doctors  who  are  never  ill  themselves.  A 
doctor's  health  is  a  country  superstition. 

It  is  the  sadder,  therefore,  to  be  obliged  to  relate 
that  Dr.  Wells — and  his  wife,  also,  for  she  was,  in 
this  temptation,  even  weaker  morally  than  himself — 


172      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

had  become  addicted  to  dyspepsia.  There  was  not  a 
thing  the  matter  with  their  interior  mechanisms,  really, 
but  some  strain  of  notoriety-love  had  led  him  and  his 
spouse  to  affect  this  delicacy  of  constitution  in  order 
to  remind  people  perpetually  that  he  was  a  cousin  of 
Dr.  Mayhew  Pipp  of  London  who  had  discovered  a 
remedy  for  the  burning  aftermath  of  the  sin  of 
gluttony — a  pellet  that  extinguished  the  fires  of  the 
inferno  within.  It  must  also  be  stated  that  this  pose 
was  losing  for  Dr.  Wells  some  of  that  confidence  in 
his  immunity  without  which  no  medicine  man  can 
treat  persons  to  their  profit  or  his  own — in  the 
country. 

He  took  off  his  light  topcoat,  hat,  and  thin,  white 
silk  scarf,  [of  the  old  school,  he  believed  in  bundling 
up  for  driving,  at  night,  regardless  of  the  weather,] 
and  laid  them  on  a  bamboo  seat  on  the  verandah. 
His  outer  coverings  removed,  there  emerged  an  apple- 
rosy,  rotund  face,  with  white  hair,  moustache,  and 
whiskers  about  it,  every  hirsute  atom  crisp  and  electri- 
cal with  health.  The  very  man,  one  would  say,  to 
enter  a  sick  room;  for  the  patient  would  inevitably 
cry:  "No  matter  what  it  is,  give  me  the  dose  you 
take!" 

"And  where  is  Mrs.  Wells?"  Mrs.  Lee  inquired, 
as  the  doctor  came  down,  leaving  the  ladies  still 
unwinding  their  wraps,  with  Mrs.  Mearely*s  aid. 

"Ah!  in  bed.     Yes,  the  dear  soul.     In  bed.     An- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      173 

other  dyspeptic  attack.  But  she  insisted  on  my 
coming  without  her.  She  knows  that  whist  is  my 
weakness,  and,  being  glad  that  I  have  no  worse  vices, 
she  encourages  it.  It  is  most  satisfactory,  my  dear 
lady,  to  indulge  in  vices  approved  of  by  one's  wife." 
SmiHng,  he  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"Well!  There  is  our  dear  Mrs.  Lee!"  Mrs. 
Witherby  sailed  down  upon  her.  "What  a  surprise! 
I  had  no  idea  we  should  find  you  here!" 

What  more  she  might  have  said,  in  this  vein,  was 
curbed  by  a  supercilious  glance  from  her  niece,  who 
bent  to  kiss  Mrs.  Lee's  left  cheek  as  soon  as  her  aunt 
had  completed  her  osculations  on  the  other  one. 
Mrs.  Witherby  knew  that  Mabel  was  in  a  dangerous 
humour;  and  she  recalled  that,  at  times,  on  far  less 
provocation,  Miss  Crewe  had  succeeded  in  conveying 
to  an  assembly  her  doubts  of  her  aunt's  truthfulness. 
Avoiding  danger,  therefore,  she  drew  away  from  the 
settee  and  seated  herself  at  the  table. 

"Cards!"  she  cooed.  "Isn't  that  delightful? 
And  a  new  pack,  too!  How  thoughtful  of  you,  dear 
Mrs.  Mearely,  to  get  us  a  new  pack.  The  others 
were  really  rather  spoiled.  Men  are  so  rough  in 
their  handHng  of  cards." 

Mrs.  Witherby  was,  like  Dr.  Wells,  less  an  individ- 
ual than  a  type.  She  was  symbolic  of  efficiency,  as 
the  village  understood  the  term.  That  is,  never 
having  been  obHged  to  do  anything  herself  to  satisfy 


174      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

others,  she  felt  completely  competent  to  give  any- 
one directions  about  any  task  whatsoever.  She 
knew  how  she  wanted  things  done,  and  had  a  rooted 
conviction  that  she  was  the  only  person  in  the  com- 
munity whose  pleasure  or  approval  mattered  in  the 
least.  She  was  rather  overwhelming  in  appearance, 
being  of  more  than  medium  height,  and  decidedly 
more  than  medium  breadth.  Furthermore,  she  wore 
both  those  anatomical  protuberances  cited  by  the 
ancient  Hebraic  scribes  as  perilous  next-door  neigh- 
bours for  a  humble  and  a  contrite  heart — ^namely, 
the  proud  bosom  and  the  high  stomach. 

Her  two  chins  reposed  between  the  upper  folds 
of  her  fichu,  for  she  held  her  head  haughtily  with 
chins  in,  brow  high,  eyebrows  elevated,  eyes  alert 
and  ready  to  snap  with  indignation  at  the  stupidity 
and  impropriety  constantly  affronting  them,  and 
mouth  slightly  open,  prepared  to  exclaim  the  scathing 
contempt  surging  within  her  for  anyone  and  every- 
one whose  views  on  any  subject  differed  from  Emma 
Crewe  Witherby's. 

Her  hair  was  but  slightly  touched  with  gray  and 
she  was  still  doing  all  she  could  to  conceal  the 
blanched  tendrils.  She  made  an  erection  of  her 
tresses,  after  the  tongs  had  crimped  every  strand, 
till  the  formation  suggested  an  overturned  cornu- 
copia; she  then  inset  it  with  tortoiseshell  pins.  Her 
dress  was  a  plum-coloured  brocade  with  black  velvet 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      175 

train,  and  elbow  sleeves  of  brocade.  Her  fichu  and 
her  sleeves  were  trimmed  with  Honiton  lace.  "A 
gentlewoman  should  adorn  her  station,"  was  one  of 
her  favourite  axioms.  Three  fourths  of  the  money 
spent  on  dress  in  her  household  went  to  assist  her 
in  living  up  to  the  saying.  The  rest  was  sufficient 
to  buy  gidish  muslins  for  Corinne,  who  was  "too 
young  for  silks,"  being  barely  eighteen. 

Mabel  Crewe,  who  was  twenty-five — and  hand- 
some, in  a  slim,  dusky,  reserved  fashion  (with  sul- 
phurous suggestions  underneath  it) — was  provided 
for  with  her  aunt's  cast-oflTs,  which  her  own  clever 
fingers  converted  into  passable,  though  not  suitable, 
raiment  for  her  comely  young  body.  She  was  in 
black  silk  to-night.  The  long  skirt  hid  the  fact 
that  her  hose  were  not  silk  and  that  her  slippers 
were  rubbed  in  places.  Her  well-shaped  white  arms 
and  slender  throat  were  oddly  set  in  Aunt  Emma's 
old  peau  de  soie,  but  perhaps  whiter  by  contrast. 

This  last  was  Wilton  Howard's  opinion  as  his 
gaze  sought  and  lingered  on  her.  He  had  driven 
up  so  closely  upon  the  other  two  vehicles  that  the 
sound  of  his  wheels  had  not  been  heard.  He  stood 
on  the  verandah,  divesting  himself  of  his  topcoat. 
Anticipation  of  the  only  happiness  she  knew — her 
few  words  and  stolen  moments  with  this  man — 
made  Mabel  Crewe  keener  than  the  others  to  detect 
his  noiseless  presence.     She  turned  and  saw  him. 


176      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

this  handsome,  well-bred,  shallow  young  gentle- 
man, surveying  her  with  admiration  in  his  eyes  and 
a  frown  between  his  brows.  Perchance  the  frown 
meant  that  he  was  resentful  of  her  power  to  stir 
him,  since  nothing  could  come  of  it  but  disappoint- 
ment. In  Roseborough,  persons  of  his  and  Miss 
Crewe's  birth  and  kindred  could  not  marry  on 
nothing  but  love.  Their  families,  and  Roseborough, 
demanded  of  them  that  they  settle  themselves 
properly  in  Hfe,  to  keep  up  appearances. 

Her  eyes  met  his  and  a  movement  went  through 
her,  like  the  slightest  swaying  of  a  tree;  but,  after 
the  first  instant,  her  face  revealed  nothing.  It  was 
proud,  indifferent — cold,  one  might  almost  have 
said,  but  for  the  undercurrents  tingling  through  her 
and  stirring  the  depths  of  her  eyes. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Howard,"  she  called  in  her 
leisurely  voice — a  voice  refined  and  musical  in 
quality  and  indiflPerent  in  its  inflections.  She  turned 
her  back  on  him  and  moved  to  the  settee  where 
Dr.  Wells  and  Mrs.  Lee  were  still  in  conversation. 

"Mr.  Howard  has  arrived,  and  I  am  sure  Judge 
GifFen  and  Mr.  Andrews  cannot  be  far  off.  Doctor, 
you  will  presently  be  rejoicing  in  beating  Aunt 
Emma  at  cards.  That  is,  if  she  is  not  your  partner. 
If  she  is  your  partner,  then  you  can  rejoice  in  being 
beaten  for  her  sake,  with  many  stripes." 

"I    heard    every    word    of   that,    Mabel,"    Mrs. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      177 

Witherby  declared,  with  a  little  more  asperity  than 
usual.  "You  delight  to  undermine  my  intellect  in 
the  ears  of  my  friends.  As  to  cards,  I  frequently 
say,  and  without  egotism,  that  there  is  not  a  woman 
in  Roseborough  who  plays  a  better  hand  than  I." 

Corinne  Witherby  giggled  at  this. 

"I  heard  the  Judge  say  one  evening  that  no  doubt 
there  is  no  woman  in  Roseborough  who  plays  a 
better  hand  than  some  he  has  seen  you  hold.  Mamma; 
and  that  he  is  positive  no  other  woman  in  the  world 
would  play  a  good  hand  in  the  way  he's  seen  you  play 
some  of  yours." 

"Corinne!" 

"Oh,  it's  no  use  reproving  me !  If  I  am  old  enough 
to  play  cards  with  you,  I'm  old  enough  to  criticise 
the  way  you  play  your  hands." 

"Corinne,  be  quiet.  I  am  speaking  to  Mrs. 
Mearely.  I  fear  I've  spoiled  you  by  making  such  a 
companion  of  you.  You  should  be  in  the  school- 
room." 

"But,  I'm  not!"  Corinne  cried,  merrily.  She 
was  thinking  little  of  what  she  said;  for  her  eyes, 
round  as  saucers,  were  devouring  Rosamond  in  her 
rose-and-silver  trappings. 

"Isn't  Mrs.  Mearely  too  beautiful  for  words  to- 
night.?" she  whispered  into  her  cousin's  ear. 

"Who  is  she  to  have  everything.?  Any  one  could 
be  beautiful  in  such  a  frock,"  was  the  bitter  reply. 


178      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Corinne's  arm  went  round  Mabel's  slim  waist. 
She  whispered  again: 

"You  look  beautiful,  too — even  if  your  dress  is 
plainer  than  hers.  When  I  am  twenty-one,  and 
mamma  gives  me  some  of  the  handsome  things  out 
of  the  big  box,  Vm  going  to  divide  everything  half 
and  half  with  you." 

"Oh,  Corinne!"  she  smiled.  "Perhaps,  when 
you're  twenty-one,  you  won't  want  to  divide." 

"I'll  want  to,  more!  Because  I'll  be  three  and  a 
half  years  fonder  of  you  than  I  am  now." 

Seeing  Mr.  Howard  manoeuvring  his  greetings  so 
that  he  could  conclude  them  naturally  at  Mabel's 
side,  Corinne  withdrew.  She  was  a  pretty  little 
creature,  plump,  rosy,  and  lively.  Her  white  muslin 
frock,  the  work  of  her  cousin's  clever  fingers,  set 
off  her  black,  curly  hair  and  big,  bright  brown  eyes. 
Mrs.  Taite  could  never  have  cast  her  doubts  upon 
Corinne  in  her  muslins,  for  the  guileless  heart  made 
itself  evident  in  all  her  words  and  acts.  One  sur- 
mised— from  her  buoyancy  and  sweetness  of  temper, 
and  a  native  thoughtfulness  she  had  for  the  sensi- 
bilities of  others — that  her  father,  the  late  Jameson 
Witherby,  Esquire,  had  taken  a  good  disposition 
away  from  earth  with  him  when  he  had  quitted  the 
side  of  his  Emma — until  that  day  when  an  over- 
worked Providence  (meaning  only  to  be  systematic, 
not  unkind)  should  re-unite  them  for  all  eternity. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      179 

"Mrs.  Mearely,  do  come  aside  a  moment.  I  must 
ask  you  something."  Mrs.  Witherby  took  Rosa- 
mond firmly  by  the  arm. 

"It  is  my  dress  she  is  after!"  Rosamond  thought. 
"Ask;  Fm  all  attention,"  she  said. 

"Your  gown.  Do  tell  me  now,  have  you  put  off  all — 
even  the  smallest  hint — of  mourning?  .  .  .  Perman- 
ently ?  "     She  added  the  last  word  with  heavy  emphasis. 

"Yes.  Even  to  the  last,  smallest  hint.  Per- 
manently." 

"Indeed.?     Indeed.?" 

"Yes.     Indeed  and  indeed!" 

"Of  course,  I  felt  sure  you  would  not  resent  my 
questions.  Though  if  any  one  else  asked  you,  you 
might  ask,  in  return,  what  business  it  was  of  theirs. 
And  I,  for  one,  should  back  you  up  in  that;  for,  if 
there  is  one  thing  above  another  which  I  neither  can 
nor  will  tolerate,  it  is  inquisitiveness.  Why  pry 
into  the  affairs  of  others  ?  Whose  business  is  it  but 
their  own?  That  is  what  I  say.  All  Roseborough 
knows  what  I  think  about  busybodying  and  gossip." 

"Yes;  that  is  very  true.  All  Roseborough  knows. 
.  .  .  By  the  way,  Roseborough  has  behaved 
beautifully  to  my  mourning,  never  resenting  that  it 
shadowed  the  pleasure  of  teas  and  little  gatherings, 
when — er — ^joy  should  have  been  unconfined.  I 
am  showing  Roseborough  how  well  I  understand 
it,  and  how  grateful  I  am  for  its  forbearance,  by 


i8o      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

returning  to  colours — the  brightest  and  cheeriest  I 
can  select.'*     She  beamed  sweetly. 

'^Oh!— oh-h?  Really.?"  Mrs.  Witherby  felt  her 
sails  slacken  as  the  wind  was  taken  out  of  them. 

** To-morrow,  at  Mrs.  Lee's  breakfast,  I  shall 
wear  white — a  very  simple  frock.  But  to-night  I 
have  put  this  one  on,  to  introduce  myself  in  my  new 
character — first,  to  you  and  Mrs.  Lee  and  our  closest 
intimates.  You  can  understand  how  I  would  nat- 
urally do  so?'*     She  smiled  again,  more  sweetly. 

"Oh,  yes.  Oh-h,  ye-es!  I  understand  it  perfectly. 
Oh,  perfectly  !  Are  you  sure,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mearely, 
that  you  do  not  intend  to  make  a  little  announce- 
ment ere  we  leave  to-night?" 

"An  announcement?" 

"Judge  GifFen  is  to  be  here — ah,  he  is  here!  I 
didn't  see  him  come  in.  It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to 
say  that  you  have  dressed  yourself  so  charmingly, 
to-night,  to  give  pleasure  to  my  eyes,  but  are  you 
sure — are  you  sure''  (she  wagged  a  forefinger  play- 
fully) "that  you  didn't  put  on  that  ineffable  gown  to 
charm  a  lover  ?" 

In  spite  of  herself,  Rosamond's  eyes  snapped 
and  the  red  flamed  in  her  cheeks. 

"Not  only  sure,  but  certain  and  positive,"  she  said 
tartly. 

Mrs.  Witherby,  much  pleased  to  see  the  flush 
and  discomposure,  smiled,  bridled,  and  said: 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      i8i 

"Well,  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see!  and  I  feel 
confident  we  shall  know  a  great  deal  more  about  our 
dear  Mrs.  Mearely  to-morrow.  The  sweet  blush  is 
most  becoming." 

Knowing  that  she  had  the  worst  of  the  encounter 
and  could  not  easily  recover,  Rosamond  was  glad 
to  be  obliged  to  give  her  attention  to  the  Judge. 
She  showed  a  proper  soHcitude  regarding  his  mis- 
adventures on  horseback  and  made  gracious  response 
to  his  compliments. 

Presently  Mr.  Andrews  and  Dr.  Frei  arrived. 
The  latter,  violin-case  in  hand,  loitered  by  Miss 
Crewe  and  Wilton  Howard,  who  had  seated  them- 
selves on  the  verandah  to  observe  the  young  moon 
rise  over  the  river,  defiant  of  the  wrath  their  tete- 
d-tetes  always  aroused  in  Mrs.  Witherby's  breast. 
While  it  could  be  said  of  even  the  stocky  doctor 
that  he  wore  evening  dress  naturally,  and  looked 
as  if  the  coat — ^which  classifies  all  who  wear  it  as 
either  gentlemen  or  waiters — belonged  to  him,  yet 
it  must  be  admitted  that  Dr.  Frei  brought  a  greater 
distinction  to  the  garment  than  did  any  other  man 
in  Roseborough. 

Rosamond  thought  he  carried  his  head  like  some 
mcBstro  receiving  the  homage  of  an  enraptured  public. 
As  to  features,  he  was  less  handsome  than  Howard, 
and  he  lacked  the  smooth  and  respectfully  caressing 
manner  which  was  the  latter's  greatest  charm  to 


1 82      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

women;  but  there  was  "an  elegance  about  him" — 
as  all  Roseborough  echoed  Mrs.  Witherby  in  say- 
ing— that  set  him  apart.  Even  Mrs.  Witherby 
was  baffled  by  his  manner.  It  stopped  her  ques- 
tions before  they  were  completed,  making  her 
change  their  tenor  and  give  them  the  semblance  of 
innocent  and  uninquisitive  remarks. 

Mr.  Albert  Andrews  stood  back  surveying  his 
hostess  with  a  stare  more  pop-eyed  than  usual.  He 
knew  pink  when  he  saw  it;  and  he  was  seeing  pink. 
The  silver  overdress,  however,  raised  a  row  of  inter- 
rogation points  across  the  blank  spaces  of  his  mind. 
Mrs.  Bunny  had  not  shown  him  silver's  place  in 
the  emotional  scale.  He  was  a  cautious,  sensitive 
soul,  and  desired  to  avoid  making  himself  ridiculous 
a  second  time.  He  looked  about  for  aid  and  anon 
decided  that  Dr.  Wells,  whose  profession  brought 
him  into  intimate  relations  with  death,  was  the  man 
who  should  know  whether  a  silver  overdress  was  a 
condition  of  mourning  or  not.  He  drew  him  aside 
and  asked  the  important  question. 

"Silver?  Silver?  God  bless  my  soul,  man,  I 
don't  know.     One  sees  a  good  deal  of  it  about." 

"I  think  I  recall  seeing  silver  wreaths  on  caskets?" 
Mr.  Andrews  ruminated  with  questioning  inflection. 

"No  doubt.  No  doubt.  And  on  wedding  cakes, 
too!  Many  a  man  wishes  the  wreath  that  topped 
his  wedding  cake  had  adorned  his  casket  instead." 


''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!''      183 

Dr.  Wells  was  not  interested  in  the  subject,  so  he 
chuckled  at  his  own  joke,  gave  Andrews  a  dig  in  the 
ribs,  and  made  off  to  the  whist  table,  mentally  resolv- 
ing to  have  Corinne  instead  of  her  mother  for  his 
partner.  In  this  he  was  disappointed.  Andrews 
had  already  asked  Corinne  to  play  with  him.  He 
was  practising  gallantry,  as  well  as  colour  selection,  to 
fit  himself  for  the  role  he  wished  to  enact  as  the 
master  of  the  mistress  of  Villa  Rose. 

"I  am  eager  to  try  the  Tschaikowsky  with  you," 
Frei  said  to  Rosamond,  taking  his  violin  from  its 
case.     "May  we  not  play  now.^" 

"Yes,  certainly.     We  shall  not  be  missed.'* 

She  looked  about  at  her  guests  and  saw  that  they 
were  all  apparently  in  contentment.  Dr.  Wells 
was  dealing  the  cards,  and  the  four  at  the  table  were 
engrossed  already  with  the  pleasure  to  come.  How- 
ard and  Mabel,  chatting  in  low  tones  on  the  ver- 
andah, had  forgotten  all  the  world  but  each  other. 
Mrs.  Lee  was  absorbed  in  a  difficult  moment  of  her 
lace-mending.  The  Judge  had  seated  himself  at  the 
other  end  of  the  long  settee  and  descended  into  the 
profundities  of  the  latest  Digest. 

Rosamond,  lifting  herself  on  tiptoe,  put  one  finger 
on  her  laughing  lips  and  the  other  hand  into  Frei's. 

"Come,"  she  whispered. 

Smiling  delightedly  at  her  prankishness,  he  clasped 
her  fingers  and  tiptoed  with  her  into  the  music  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  musicians  were  not  missed,  and  it  is  safe  to 
say  that,  for  some  time,  their  melody  was  un- 
heard; not  even  the  lovers  on  the  verandah  lent  ear 
to  it,  for  Mabel  was  gathering  her  forces  for  an  attack 
upon  all  the  conventions  of  maidenly  reserve,  while 
Howard  was  seeking  through  the  shallows  of  his  diplo- 
macy for  some  acceptable  method  of  writing  "finis" 
across  their  romance.  Each  felt  the  secret  strain  and 
battle  within  the  other.  They  became  silent,  each 
waiting  and  guarding  against  the  other's  first  move. 

At  the  card  table,  as  usual,  the  first  rounds  were 
played  in  silence.  The  players  were,  as  the  saying  is, 
**  feeling  one  another  out."  Judge  Giffen  was  not  dis- 
tracted, therefore,  from  the  opening  columns  which 
the  Digest  had  allotted  to  an  "exclusive"  bit  of 
information  supplied  by  the  young  gentleman  who 
acted  as  its  special  correspondent  on  the  Balkan 
peninsula.  There  was  a  page  and  a  half  of  it.  The 
Judge  took  off  his  glasses — rubbed,  and  was  replacing 
them,  when  Mrs.  Lee  addressed  him. 

"I  do  hope  you  will  find  some  charming  item  to 
regale  us  with.  Judge  Giffen.  I  saw  you  tear  off  the 
wrapper  so  I  know  it  is  a  new  Digest  J' 

184 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      185 

"Ah,  yes — ah — ^just  come,  you  know.  A  remark- 
able paper,  the  Digest.  Gives  one  the — ah — news 
of  the  world  every  week  without  a  superfluous  word — 
ah — ^journalism  in  these  days  has  become — ah — 
debauched.  The  simplest  events  are  distorted  for 
sensationalism — ah — to  wring  tears  from  the  senti- 
mentalists." 

"Fve  heard  others  say  the  same  thing.  What  a 
pity,  is  it  not?" 

Mrs.  Lee,  finding  that  she  could  not  turn  a  corner 
successfully,  took  the  kerchief  out  of  the  frame  and 
drew  the  point  of  lace  taut  over  her  thumb.  Her 
motion  attracted  the  judge's  attention  and  he 
watched  her  deft  fingers  as  he  continued  his  strictures 
on  journalism. 

"A  pity?  A  scandal!  Does  a  celebrity  die? 
We  are  intruded  into  the  most  intimate  details  of 
his  family  history;  what — ah — shaving  soap  he 
used  and  whether  he — ah — preferred  to  kiss  his  lady 
love  on  the  — ah — nose  or  behind  the  ear;  and — ah — 
who  cried,  and  how  many,  when  he — ah — in  vulgar 
phrase — ah — 'kicked  the  bucket.'  And,  mind  you, 
not  a  word  of  truth  in  the  whole  story!  Whereas 
the  Digest  merely  states  with  terseness  and  accuracy: 
*the — ah — Emperor  of  China  died  on  Sunday,  of — ah 
— an  overdose  of — ah — bird's-nest  soup.'  It  leaves 
you  to  infer  that,  in  the  case  of  the  death  of  a  cele- 
brated personage  who  met  thousands  of  people  in 


1 86      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

his  public  life,  there  were  some  who  cried  and  some 
who — ah — did  not.  Any  fool  knows  that,  so  why 
waste  print  on  it  ? " 

"My  husband  used  to  tell  his  students  that,  in 
literary  composition,  sincerity  was  more  important 
than  rhetoric  and  that  only  a  ^no,  feeling  could  dictate 
the  making  of  a  truly  fine  phrase.  He  said  that  pure 
English  had  come  with  the  spiritual  development  of 
the  rac^;  and  that  a  forceful  and  intimate  use  of  it 
must  come  about  through  the  individual  writer's 
spiritual  evolution.  Otherwise  he  claimed  no  man 
could  write  with  real  power." 

**Ah.  Um,  very  true.  But  all  wasted  on  the — 
ah — young  cubs,  I  dare  say."  The  Judge  wisely 
made  no  attempt  to  follow  Professor  Lee's  analyses. 
Metaphysics  was  several  points  beyond  him.  He 
found  the  movements  of  Mrs.  Lee's  tiny  needle, 
with  its  almost  imperceptible  gossamer  thread,  more 
interesting. 

"Ah.  I  have  become  quite  absorbed  in  your  work. 
It  seems  to  be  so — ah — marvellously  intricate. 
May  I  ask  what,  precisely,  you  are  doing?" 

"I  am  mending  a  rare  old  cobweb  of  lace,"  she 
answered — spreading  the  white  fragment  across  her 
palm  for  him  to  look  at — "and,  at  the  same  time, 
transferring  it  from  its  worn-out  cambric  to  a  new 
piece  of  linen.  A  very  delicate  operation,  judge; 
and  a  labour  of  love." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      187 

"Ah!  indeed?" 

**Yes.  It  is  for  my  granddaughter's  trousseau. 
She  marries  in  December,  and — we  feel  confident — 
very  happily.  Yes,  her  intended  seems  a  thoroughly 
settled  young  man.     She  met  him  in  Scotland." 

"It  is  a  labour  requiring  both  patience  and  skill, 
I  should  say." 

"I  think  that  patience  and  skill  are  the  two  quali- 
ties required  most  in  any  labour  of  love,"  she  an- 
swered, with  gentle  pleasure  in  the  subject.  He 
peered  at  the  dainty  fabric  as  she  cleverly  set  it  into 
the  frame  again. 

"Now  do  find  us  some  delicious  item,"  she  urged. 

"Ah.  To  be  sure.  Here's  something  on  the 
first  page.  I've  just  begun — and  it — ah — promises 
to  be  exciting,  too,  which  is — ah — rather  unusual 
for  the  Digest.'' 

He  had  just  found  the  place,  preparatory  to  read- 
ing, when  hubbub  burst  about  the  card-taKle. 

"Now,  Mamma!"  Corinne's  vigorous  young  voice 
broke  in.  "You  simply  cannot  lead  every  time  I 
take    a    trick.     It's — it's    ridiculous.     This    is    my 

play." 

"If  the  Witherbys  are  going  to  have  a  set  to, 
there'll  be  no  use  in  my  reading  aloud  till  they've 
fought  it  out,"  the  Judge  said  to  himself,  and  lost 
himself  as  promptly  as  possible  in  the  "exclusive." 

"Corinne!     You  are  speaking  to  your  mother!" 


i88      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mrs.  Witherby  so  informed  her  daughter,  when  she 
could  get  her  breath.  Dr.  Wells  hastened  to  inter- 
vene. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  on  the  whole  it  might 
be  as  well  to  play  in  turn.  Of  course,  I  make  no 
rule" — a  deprecating  gesture  toward  his  bristling 
partner  forbade  her  to  think  he  would  presume  to 
make  rules  for  her — *^but  it  is  generally  done,  I 
believe."  tJe  rose,  beamed  benignly.  "Your  card." 
He  passed  it  to  her. 

Corinne  tossed  her  head  at  her  mother  and  led 
the  round. 

When  her  turn  came,  Mrs.  Witherby  threw  down 
the  knave  of  hearts  and  gathered  up  the  cards. 

"Trumps!  Our  trick,  doctor,"  she  cried  vic- 
toriously. Her  success  was  greeted  with  a  profound 
silence,  broken  at  last  by  Dr.  Wells;  he  coughed. 
Andrews,  seeing  that  Corinne  was  about  to  express 
herself  with  her  customary  frankness,  flung  himself 
into  the  breach. 

"Er — you  overlooked — oh,  quite  by  accident,  of 
course — er — you  have  the  three  of  clubs  in  your 
hand." 

"I  refuse  to  play  with  any  one — any  one — ^who  is 
capable  of  looking  at  my  hand." 

The  sensitive  Mr.  Andrews  turned  the  peony-red 
which  is  specially  inflicted  upon  sandy,  blond  men. 

"I  did  not  look  at  your  hand,"  he  protested,  with 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      189 

mild  heat.  "You  played  the  three  of  clubs  when  you 
led  off,  just  now,  in  your  daughter's  place — oh, 
by  mistake,  of  course.     It  is  still  in  your  hand." 

"Your  card,"  the  doctor  murmured,  politely 
handing  it  to  her.     Corinne  gathered  up  the  trick. 

"Another  round  finishes  the  game.  Come  on, 
Mrs.  Witherby.  You  must  put  your  best  foot  for- 
ward and  cast  these  young  people  into  the  shade," 
Dr.  Wells  urged  in  his  cheeriest  tones,  obviously 
endeavouring  to  banish  the  sour  gloom  that  had 
settled  on  his  partner's  spirit.  A  darting,  knifelike 
glance  of  her  eyes  told  that  he  had  failed. 

"My  foot  is  not  of  such  dimensions  as  to  cast  a 
shade  over  two  persons,"  sourly.  "I  don't  under- 
stand your  allusion." 

Again  the  peace-loving  Andrews  flew  like  the  dove 
upon  the  storm. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Witherby,  you  will  be  one  of 
Mrs.  Lee's  breakfast  party  to-morrow.?"  he  said, 
and  thus  gave  Mrs.  Lee  the  opportunity  she  needed. 
She  had  begun  to  wonder  how  she  was  to  introduce 
her  topic  sympathetically  in  the  discordant  atmos- 
phere of  one  of  Mrs.  Witherby's  "card-game  hu- 
mours." 

"  Did  I  hear  my  name  ? "  she  asked,  turning  to  them. 

"I  mentioned  your  breakfast  party,"  Andrews 
repHed  quickly.  "It  is  to  be  at  eleven  o'clock,  is  it 
not?" 


I90      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Yes.  But  everyone  is  to  be  there  by  a  quarter 
to  eleven,  so  that  we  can  be  prompt  in  beginning." 

*'To  be  sure.  Ah.  The  breakfast  party."  The 
Judge  looked  over  his  paper. 

"Do  tell  us  about  it,"  Mrs.  Witherby  interjected. 
"I  am  simply  bored  with  these  cards." 

"  Mr.  Falcon  will  arrive  at  Trenton  Waters  on  the 
morning  train,  and  I  am  sure  he  will  prefer  to  ramble 
across  the  fields  to  Roseborough.  I  suppose  I  am  a 
little  old-fashioned,  but  I  wished  him  to  feel  that  all 
the  town  was  welcoming  him  home — not  only  the 
widow  of  his  old  professor."     She  sighed  and  smiled. 

''Dear  Mrs.  Lee,"  Mrs.  Witherby  exclaimed,  effu- 
sively.    "That  is  so  like  you." 

Encouraged  by  this  responsiveness,  Mrs.  Lee  con- 
tinued more  hopefully: 

"You  see,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  comment  when 
Jack  left  college  so  abruptly.  There  had  just  come 
the  opportunity,  through  Professor  Lee,  to  teach 
languages — for  which  Jack  had  a  rare  gift — and 
certain  classes  in  Hterature  also.  That  was  quite 
an  honour  for  a  young  man  of  twenty-one.  And  to 
think  he  threw  it  all  away  just  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  see  what  was  to  be  seen!" 

"Well,  well,"  Mr.  Andrews  said,  as  she  paused; 
"Fd  never  have  done  that.  But,  then,  it  isn't  my 
nature." 

"Roseborough    was    inclined    to    be    indignant," 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      191 

Mrs.  Lee  admitted.  "But  my  husband  felt — and 
said  openly — that  there  might  be  wisdom  in  his  wan- 
dering. Indeed  he  was  the  only  one  who  stood  the 
boy's  friend  in  the  matter.  Sixteen  years  ago.  Ah, 
me!"  She  bent  over  her  lace,  because  her  eyes  were 
wet. 

The  Judge  looked  over  the  edge  of  his  paper  again. 

"I  can't  place  him.     Falcon,  do  you  say?" 

"Yes,  Jack  Falcon." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  him." 

Dr.  Wells  had  just  dealt  for  a  new  game,  but  he 
lingered  in  picking  up  his  cards  to  say: 

"Doubtless  I  treated  him  for  measles,  in  his  turn 
— along  with  every  other  child  in  the  district — but 
I  have  not  a  clear  remembrance  of  him  as  a  young 
man.  Was  he  on  any  of  the  athletic  teams,  do  you 
remember?" 

"Oh,  he  was  past  the  measles  stage  when  he  came 
to  Roseborough!  He  would  trudge  for  miles  through 
the  woods;  but  I  remember  that  he  hated  sports." 

"That  accounts  for  my  very  hazy  recollection  of 
him.  I  was  never  called  from  my  Thanksgiving 
turkey  to  set  his  collarbone." 

He  laughed  cosily  at  his  own  repartee,  and  played, 
since  Mrs.  Witherby  had  opened  the  game  and  his 
turn  had  come.  His  ruddy  brow  was  rolled  up  in 
furrows,  though,  because  it  was  difficult  to  follow 


192      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

his  partner's  play  at  any  time — more  than  difficult 
while  conversing  upon  an  alien  subject. 

"The  boy  wasn't  one  to — to  *mix/  as  they  say. 
He  was  devoted  to  my  dear  husband.  Professor 
Lee  had  a  wonderful  understanding  of  all  growing 
things — he  loved  them.  Ah,  well,"  she  sighed 
tenderly.  **Jack  was  much  with  us.  He  had  his 
room  here — the  music  room  it  is  now — for  of  course 
he  knew  us  in  our  palmy  days  when  we  lived  here, 
before  Mr.  Mearely's  time.  We  loved  him  dearly 
and  he  never  forgot  us.  He  always  wrote  to  my 
husband  at  least  twice  a  year,  and — afterward — 
to  me.  When  I  decided  to  publish  the  professor's 
manuscripts,  the  boy  wrote — he  was  in  the  Balkans 
then — offering  his  services  as  editor,  out  of  gratitude 
and  love  for  him  who  is  gone.  So  you  see  why  my 
heart  is  very  tender  toward  him,  and  why  I  am  ask- 
ing you  all,  dear  friends,  to  join  me  to-morrow  in 
his  welcome  home." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lee,"  Corinne  cried,  clapping  her 
hands,  "I  think  it's  lovely!" 

"Such  a  sweet  notion!"  her  mother  opined,  and 
to  show  that  her  interest  was  genuine,  asked,  with 
point:     "Has  he  made  any  money  ?" 

"Ah,  I  fancy  he  has,"  Mrs.  Lee  said.  "A  little; 
though  for  years  his  was  a  hand-to-mouth  exist- 
ence. Recently,  I  know,  he  was  handsomely  paid 
by  a  wealthy  gentleman  of  title     .     .     ." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      193 

**Title?"  Mrs.  Witherby  interrupted  excitably. 

"Yes,  indeed — if  my  failing  memory  serves  me — 
I  believe  he  was  almost  if  not  quite  a  r.oyal  per- 
sonage." 

''Royal?'' 

"But  that  reminds  me  of  something  that  will  stir 
your  pride,  I  know,  as  it  stirred  mine.  There  was  a 
little  prose  poem  of  Professor  Lee's,  about  Rose- 
borough."     She  beamed  at  them  all. 

"Quite  a  good  subject  for  a  poem,  I  dare  say,'* 
the  Judge  remarked.  "Personally,  I  never  read  a 
poem — though  even  the  Digest  prints  them,  to  fill 


in." 


"I  sent  it  to  Jack,"  Mrs.  Lee  hastened  on — to 
forestall  any  discussion,  pro  and  con  poetry — "hop- 
ing that  it  might  revivify  his  memories  and  lead  him 
home  from  his  wanderings.  He  showed  it  to  this 
titled  gentleman,  who  was  so  charmed  with  it  that 
he  begged  for  a  copy  and  asked  many  question,  about 
our  dear  old  town." 

There  were  pleased  and  reverent  murmurs  from 
every  one,  and  Howard,  who  had  also  been  listen- 
ing, said: 

"Very  flattering." 

Miss  Crewe  kept  her  shoulder  turned,  and  refused 
to  let  her  thoughts  leave  their  main  purpose  to 
sympathize  with  her  natal  hamlet's  pride. 

"It  begins  so  beautifully,"  Mrs.  Lee  continued. 


194      "'GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Listen:  'Here  where  all  hearts  are  tender  and 
sincere."* 

**  *  Here  where  all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere,"  Mrs. 
Witherby  echoed,  rolHng  her  eyes.  "How  lovely! 
One  would  know  at  once  that  meant  Roseborough." 

The  phrase  had  caught  Andrews's  ear.  In  playing, 
he  parroted  vacantly: 

"*Here  where  all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere!' 
Very  nice.     Trumps." 

Mrs.  Witherby  returned  to  the  item  of  greatest 
interest  to  her. 

"But,  dear  Mrs.  Lee,  you  spoke  just  now  of  his 
being  handsomely  paid  for  something.  What  was 
he  paid  for,  and  how  much  was  it?" 

**0h,  yes.  For  designing  a  great  pleasure  garden 
for  the  peasants  of  that  place.  But  I  don't  know 
the  amount." 

'^Oh,  he  is  a  landscape  gardener  now?"  Andrews 
asked.  He  was  an  amateur  horticulturist,  in  a  very 
smair  way,  himself,  and  enjoyed  gardening  details. 
The  judge,  whose  interest  in  Mr.  Falcon  was  ex- 
hausted, had  returned  to  his  paper.  Mrs.  Lee 
laughed. 

"No.  Not  a  gardener.  He  is  a  writer.  But  one 
who  can  write  on  the  earth,  if  pencil  and  pad  fail  him. 
A  practical  poet — if  you  can  call  *  practical'  a  man 
who  roams  the  world  in  search  of  beauty,  or 
of  conditions  which  will  allow  him  to  make  them 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      195 

beautiful.  The  professor  delighted  in  saying — oh, 
figuratively,  of  course — that  one  could  easily  recog- 
nize the  true  artist,  because  his  fingers  are  always 
knuckle-deep  in  earth-dust;  whereas  the  dilettante's 
fingers  are  chiefly  remarkable  for  nail-polish." 

"And,  there,  I  entirely  agree  with  him!  As  I  am 
constantly  telling  Corinne,  I  consider  the  way  people 
polish  their  nails,  nowadays,  is  positively  vulgar." 
Mrs.  Witherby  spoke  emphatically  and  played  her 
card  with  a  righteous  flourish. 

"Mamma!  It's  my  lead."  There  was  more  than 
a  suggestion  of  anger  in  Corinne's  voice. 

Bowing,  Dr.  Wells  handed  his  partner  her  card, 
saying  politely: 

"Your  card." 

"Corinne,  you  watch  me  like  a  hawk;  as  if  you 
thought  your  own  mother  would  cheat  you  if  you 
weren't  looking." 

"Ah!  but  I  always  am  looking,"  that  young  lady 
cried  gayly. 

There  was  a  lull  at  the  table  after  this  family  tilt, 
and  the  Judge  seized  the  occasion  to  share  the  "ex- 
clusive," which  had  proved  too  thrilling  to  be  kept 
to  himself. 

"Ah — give  me  your  attention  a  moment.  I  have 
just  read  in  my  Digest,  here,  such  a  peculiar  tale.  A 
reigning  prince  of  some  little  European  state  has 
run  off." 


196      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Dear,  dear,"  Mrs.  Lee  said.  "Was  it  a  love- 
afFair?" 

"Ah — ^not  precisely:  though  a  princess  had  been 
arranged  for  him." 

Even  Miss  Crewe  felt  a  degree  of  interest  in  a 
run-away  prince,  or  perhaps  she  felt  that  she  had 
challenged  her  aunt's  wrath  long  enough.  She  rose,, 
as  her  cousin  called  to  her: 

"Oh,  Mabel,  come  and  hear  about  the  prince. 
Do  tell  us  more,  Judge  GiflFen." 

The  Judge  consulted  his  paper. 

"Um — ah — here  it  is.  Um — ah — odd  chap.  Very 
chivalrous  and — ah — romantic;  eccentric;  fond  of 
wandering  about,  incognito,  and  entering  humble 
people's  houses  and — ah — making  friends  with  them. 
Artistic.  No  love-affair  suspected,  but — ah — it  seems 
he  has  never  enjoyed  ruling.  Too  sensitive.  Been 
missing  for  months.  The  Court  tried  to — ah — hide 
the  fact,  but  it  is  out  now,  and  the  whole  world  is 
aware  that  His  Highness — wait  a  minute  till  I  find 
the  place,  for  it's  a  fearful  name.  Ah — here  it  is. 
His  Highness,  Prince  Adam  Lapid,  reigning  Duke 
of  Woodseweedsetisky" — he  stumbled  over  it 
badly. 

"Good  gracious!"  Mabel  said. 

"Ah — His  Highness  has  abdicated  and  run  away 
in  disguise,  leaving  a  letter.  Ah — ^this  is  the  letter. 
Listen" : 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      197 

Dear  Subjects,  Councillors,  and  neighbouring  Princes, 
including  Her  Highness  Princess  Olga"  of  Damala-Binoot- 
shia,  to  whom  processes  of  state  have  affianced  me  although 
I  have  never  seen  her.  I  herewith  and  hereby  abdicate 
and  renounce  my  hereditary  right  to  the  throne  of  Wood- 
seweedsetisky.  I  am  too  sensitive  to  endure  the  criticisms 
aimed  at  royalty  by  heartless  radicals.  Recently  I 
have  received  harsh  words  from  a  visiting,  untitled 
stranger,  whom  I  had  employed  in  executing  a  beneficent 
and  beautiful  plan  for  my  ungrateful  subjects.  It  was 
not  my  fault  that  it  was,  later,  found  to  be  impossible  to 
bring  the  water  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  I  had 
insisted  that  the  fountain — a  memorial  to  my  father — be 
erected.  Criticism  of  me  on  that  account  was  unjust 
and  cruel.  It  was  not  I  who  failed,  but  the  water.  I 
abdicate.  I  go  to  a  place  where  there  is  no  criticism. 
Farewell. 

Adam  Lapid. 

"Well!     What  a     .     .     .     " 
The  Judge  silenced  the  interrupting  chorus.     "A 
postscript." 

p.  s.  People  who  criticise  me  are  ignorant.  If  they 
knew  as  much  as  I  do  they  would  act  as  I  do.  As  for 
the  visiting  stranger — a  person  of  no  antecedents — ^who 
criticised  me  because  of  the  fountain,  I  have  put  him  in 
prison.  Let  him  see  whether  his  pointed  criticisms  are  sharp 
enough  to  pick  my  prison  locks.  The  top  of  the  mountain 
was  the  proper  place  for  the  memorial  fountain  to  my  hon- 
oured father.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  the  water  did  not 
arrive  there  to  spout.  But  when  this  stranger  of  humble 
birth  said  to  me,  "  I  told  you  water  will  not  run  uphill, 
even  to  oblige  a  prince,"  I  put  him  in  the  prison.     Farewell. 


198      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND T' 

"Now,  that's  a  remarkable  tale,  eh?" 

"He's  quite  mad,  of  course,"  Howard  said.  Dr. 
Wells  wanted  to  know  what  became  of  the  man  who 
designed  the  fountain  where  the  water  would  not 
arrive  to  spout. 

"Oh — ah — he  escaped." 

"  So  his  criticisms  were  sharp  enough  to  pick  locks," 
the  doctor  chuckled,  as  joyfully  as  if  the  original  jest 
had  been  his. 

"Ah.  Quite  so.  The  Councillors  suspected  at 
first  that  the  prince's  disappearance  and — ah — the 
whole  thing  was  an  anarchistic  plot.  But  they  are 
satisfied  now  that  he  really  ran  off  of  his  own  ac- 
cord." 

"Oh,  isn't  it  thrilling.?"  Corinne  clapped  her  hands 
again.  Her  large,  round  eyes  had  been  growing 
larger  and  larger,  throughout  the  recital,  till  it  was 
impossible  for  them  to  stretch  any  more. 

"I  hope  he'll  keep  his  freedom,  poor  dear,  and  let 
the  kingdom  rage,"  Mabel  said.  There  was  a  bitter- 
ness in  her  intonation,  which  always  drew  her  aunt's 
anger,  for  Mrs.  Witherby  held  that  Mabel  should 
feel  humbled  under  the  weight  of  gratitude. 

"No  doubt  you  feel  so,  Mabel,"  she  said,  acidly. 
"  But  most  of  us  recognize  duty  and  the  importance 
of  the  world's  opinion.  Ah!  there  is  our  sweet 
hostess." 

"Did  v/e  disturb  you  with  our  melodic  outcries?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      199 

Rosamond  asked,  blithely.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  her  eyes  shining. 

"We  heard  you,  of  course,"  Andrews  remarked — 
meaning  to  be  polite.     He  was  leading  a  new  round. 

"You  made  criticisms  ?''  the  violinist  asked, 
darkly. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Dr.  Frei,  we  were  charmed — utterly 
charmed." 

Frei  acknowledged  Mrs.  Witherby's  impressive 
compliment  with  a  low  bow.     He  was  very  grave. 

"Dr.  Frei  plays  so  beautifully."  Rosamond 
thought  she  saw  his  sad  mood  coming  upon  him, 
and  was  eager  to  ward  it  off  with  sympathetic 
eulogies.     Mrs.  Lee,  unawares,  abetted  her. 

"  Dear  Dr.  Frei,  how  much  you  have  added  to  the 
natural  charm  of  our  dear  old  town  by  bringing  your 
violin,  and  opening  your  little  studio  among  us." 

Frei  bent  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"You  have  a  kind  heart,"  he  said,  gratefully. 
"You  criticise  no  one." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  she  replied.  "The  Judge  has 
just  been  telling  us  about  a  poor  dear  man  out  in  the 
great  world — ah,  well!  Life  must  be  very  different 
in  the  vast  cities,  where  people  are  strangers  instead 
of  neighbours.  Think  of  that!  Strangers  instead 
of  neighbours!  How  fortunate  I  am  to  live  in  Rose- 
borough,  where  everybody  is  so  interested  in  every- 
body   else.     Dear    Mrs.    Witherby,    in    particular. 


200      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

takes  such  an  interest."  She  patted  that  lady's  arm. 
Mrs.  Witherby,  having  lost  the  last  round,  had  left 
the  table.  "Ah,  well,  that  is  the  spirit  of  Rose- 
borough." 

"Some  might  call  it  a  meddlesome  spirit,"  Miss 
Crewe  suggested. 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,"  Mrs.  Lee  reproved  her, 
affectionately. 

"I  think  we  will  not  allow  Mabel  to  interpret  the 
spirit  of  Roseborough."  Mrs.  Witherby  was  smilingly 
spiteful. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  play?"  Judge  GifFen 
drew  Frei  aside. 

"In  Warsaw." 

"Ah!  Indeed?  I  know  Warsaw."  He  began  to 
relate  to  Dr.  Frei  whatever  incidents  remained  in 
his  mind  of  his  visit  to  the  Polish  capital,  twenty-five 
years  before. 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  assisting  Mrs.  Lee  in  gathering 
up  her  fancywork,  scissors,  spools  and  so  forth,  and 
was  receiving  in  return  that  lady's  ardent  thanks  for 
her  help  in  notifying  guests  without  telephones  of 
Mr.  Falcon's  home-coming  breakfast.  Mabel  lifted 
the  old  lady's  white  wool  shawl  and  wrapped  it  about 
her. 

"Oh,  do  come  here,  Mrs.  Mearely!"  cried  Corinne, 
who  was  now  alone  at  the  card  table.  She  caught 
Rosamond's  hand  and  began  excitedly,  "Oh,  Mrs. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      201 

Mearely,  Judge  GifFen  has  just  read  such  a  thrilling 
thing  in  the  Digest.  Just  think!  a  real  prince  has  run 
away  from  his  throne,  and  taken  a  different  name, 
but  they  don't  know  what  it  is  and — and — he's  gone 
looking  for  a  real  romance — and  they  think  he  has 
hidden  himself  in  some  little  town.  Oh!  think;  if 
he'd  only  come  to  Roseborough !  Oh,  Mrs.  Mearely," 
she  panted,  **all  my  life  I've  wanted  something 
wonderful  to  happen  in  Roseborough!" 

Rosamond  laughed,  noting  Corinne's  breathless  ex- 
citement rather  than  her  news. 

"My  dear  Corinne,  nothing  will  ever  happen  in 
Roseborough." 

Corinne  almost  wailed  her  protest  at  this  hard 
saying. 

"Oh,  it  might  happen!  Think  if  the  prince  came 
here.  Oh,  he  might,  Mrs.  Mearely,"  she  pleaded. 
''He  might." 

Rosamond,  smiling,  shook  her  head,  Seeing  that 
Mrs.  Lee  was  ready  to  leave,  she  threw  her  own  wrap 
around  her. 

"Now,  I  must  be  off  to  bed.  I  have  overstayed." 
Mrs.  Lee  was  rejecting  Mrs.  Witherby's  efforts  to 
keep  her  **just  another  half  hour."  "One  must  go  to 
sleep  when  the  twilight  ends,  if  one  would  really  enjoy 
early  rising.  I  think  I  may  almost  say  I  have 
not  missed  a  sunrise  for  twenty  years." 

"Sunrise?"  Howard  repeated,   "I  often  wonder 


202      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

how  you  do  it!  I  find  half-past  eight  almost  too 
early." 

"Dr.  Frei  and  I  will  go  with  you,"  Rosamond  said. 
Frei,  hearing  his  name,  turned.  The  Judge  followed 
him  for  the  purpose  of  concluding  his  arguments. 

**As  I  was  saying,"  he  insisted,  "I  have  only  one 
criticism  to  make  of  Beethoven's  sonatas     .     .     . " 

Frei  wheeled  upon  him,  and  silenced  him  with  a 
commanding  gesture. 

"Do  not  make  it!"  he  said,  frowning  fiercely  as  at 
the  most  hated  of  enemies.  "  Beethoven  is  not  here 
to  defend  himself.  Ach!  I  detest  criticism.  It  is 
the  speech  of  those  who  do  not  understand." 

The  judge,  feeling  aggrieved  at  this  public  snub- 
bing, walked  off,  muttering  under  his  breath: 
"Touchy  fiddler!"     Frei  gave  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Lee. 

"Good-bye,  for  the  present."  Rosamond  waited 
an  instant  to  offer  cheer  to  her  remaining  guests,  before 
joining  Mrs.  Lee  and  Frei  on  the  verandah.  "Some 
of  you  will  have  time  for  another  game  before  we 
return.  The  chess  board  is  just  as  you  and  Wilton 
left  it,  Judge.  When  cards  and  chess  pall,  you  will 
find  sandwiches  and  salad,  with  perhaps  a  jelly  or 
two  and  some  of  Amanda's  parsnip  wine  on  the  din- 
ing-room table.     I  know  we  can't  persuade  Mrs.  Lee." 

"No,  dear,  not  in  the  evening.  Good-night,  dear 
friends.  I  shall  see  you  all  at  breakfast,  to-morrow. 
A  quarter  to  eleven.     Don't  fail  me." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      203 

"We  won't!"  Corinne  called  to  her,  above  the 
calmer  promises  of  the  older  folk. 

"Oh,  joy!  A  new  man  is  coming  to  Roseborough! 
Though  I  suppose  he's  pretty  old,"  she  added,  after 
Mrs.  Lee  and  her  two  escorts  had  disappeared. 
"Mrs.  Lee  calls  men  of  fifty  *dear  boys,'  if  they  ever 
went  to  Charleroy." 

Mrs.  Witherby,  Wells,  and  Andrews  seated  them- 
selves at  the  card  table.  For  the  moment,  Mrs. 
Witherby's  mind  was  occupied  with  something  more 
important  than  cards.  Assuring  herself  that  her 
niece  could  not  hear  her,  she  said: 

"  Mrs.  Barton  is  not  coming  from  Poplars  Vale  till 
next  week,  so  I  shall  try  to  persuade  Mrs.  Mearely 
to  let  me  leave  our  Thomas  to  sleep  in  the  house  here, 
to-night.  With  her  sister  absent,  she  is  quite  alone. 
You  know,  I  consider  it  suspicious  that  her  two  maids 
should  have  been  called  to  their  sick  mother's  bed- 
side the  same  day  that  her  coachman  was  obliged  to 
take  the  gray  mare  out  to  the  farm.  It  leaves  Mrs. 
Mearely  quite  alone.  I  consider  it  very  suspicious. 
I  think  Mrs.  Barton  should  have  been  sent  for.  I 
think  it  pecuHar  that  Mrs.  Mearely  herself  did  not 
tell  me  about  it." 

Wells,  who  was  dealing,  replied  humorously: 

"But — the  maids  being  sisters — naturally,  if  Je- 
mima's mother  is  ill,  so  is  Amanda's  mother,  te- 
he-he." 


204      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

He  was  rewarded  with  a  frosty  glance. 

"It  pleases  you  to  be  facetious.  Corinne,  come— 
we  are  having  another  game." 

Corinne  came,  none  too  willingly.  The  Judge, 
who  had  had  enough  of  the  Digest  for  that  evening, 
nodded  to  Wilton. 

"  Er — shall  we  try  the  chessmen  to-night,  Howard  ? 
Perhaps  Miss  Crewe  will  sit  by  and  inspire  us." 

Howard,  anxious  to  avoid  another  tete-a-tete  with 
Mabel,  answered  with  alacrity,  "  By  all  means." 

Mabel,  yawning,  sank  among  the  cushions  of  the 
settee.  She  was  not  interested  in  chess,  but  she 
could  watch  her  lover's  profile  from  this  position. 

"Oh,  I  wish  there  were  something  young  to  do," 
Corinne  protested.     "Cards  aren't  young." 

"I  don't  consider  it  safe  for  Mrs.  Mearely  to  re- 
main alone  to-night,"  Mrs.  Witherby  resumed.  "A 
most  villainous-appearing  man  with  a  multitude  of 
black  whiskers  has  been  seen  lurking  about.  John- 
son, the  butcher's  boy,  told  my  maid,  Hannah  Ann, 
about  it.     He  saw  him  .^" 

"I  don't  think  Mrs.  Mearely  is  timid,"  Andrews 
said. 

"In  my  day,  Mr.  Andrews,  it  was  not  considered 
well-bred  for  women  to  make  an  exhibition  of  cour- 
age. They  had  it,  but  they  suppressed  it  under  a 
mask  of  timidity  and  sensitiveness.  And  the  girls 
married  easily  at  eighteen.     And  the  widows  were 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      205 

wives  again  before  they  had  reached  the  lavender 
stage  of  their  mourning.  I  shall  try  to  insist  on  Mrs. 
Mearely's  keeping  our  Thomas  to-night,  and  I  do 
think  it  rash  of  her  to  don  such  a  rich  and  conspicu- 
ous gown  when  she  is  entirely  alone     .     .     ." 

"Oh,  my  trick  again!  Oh,  goody!"  Corinne  broke 
in  enthusiastically. 

"Congratulations,  fair  partner."  Andrews  thought 
he  had  done  very  well  with  that  speech.  So  did 
Corinne. 

"Oh,  you  say  such  lovely  things,  Mr.  Andrews!" 

"Losing  as  usual,  aunt.?"  Mabel's  tone  was  deli- 
cately unpleasant.     It  angered  her  aunt. 

"Not  at  all!  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  woman  in  Rose- 
borough  who  plays  a  better  hand." 

In  turning  to  make  her  speech  more  impressive 
and  to  give  Miss  Crewe  a  broadside,  as  it  were,  of  her 
displeasure,  she  had  a  full  view  of  the  verandah,  and 
was  in  the  nick  of  time  to  see  a  swarthy,  black-whisk- 
ered face,  topped  by  a  soft,  black  felt  hat,  slowly 
raised  over  the  verandah  rail.  She  panted  twice 
from  terror's  cold  shock;  then  screamed  with  all  her 
might.     The  apparition  disappeared. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ? "  Dr.  Wells  looked  up,  jerkily,  from 
his  cards.  Howard  had  half  risen,  from  habit,  at 
the  feminine  cry  of  distress.  The  Judge,  peering  over 
his  pince-nez,  offered  a  practical  explanation. 

"A  beetle .?    The  summer  bugs  do  bite." 


2o6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Mamma!  I  wish  you  wouldn't  shriek  when 
there's  no  need." 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  angry  now  as  well  as  fright- 
ened.    She  gestured  frantically  and  gasped. 

"There — there!  I  saw  him!  Oh!  the  terrible 
man!     Oh,  quick — catch  him — a  man!" 

She  continued  to  point  and  wave  and  gasp  at  such 
a  rate,  that  Judge  GifFen  and  Wilton  Howard,  con- 
cealing their  mirth  as  best  they  could,  went  to  the 
verandah  and  made  a  perfunctory  investigation. 
The  movement  of  their  shoulders  suggested  that 
they  were  not  looking  over  the  verandah  rail  so  much 
as  laughing  over  it.  Miss  Crewe  gave  herself  up  to 
an  almost  hysterical  hilarity. 

"You  have  so  much  imagination.  Aunt  Emma." 

Dr.  Wells  cackled  with  dehght,  "Te-he-he! 
The  cry  of  the  eternal  feminine — *  Catch  him! 
Catch  the  man  !'     Te-he-he." 

"You  must  have  seen  him!"  Mrs.  Witherby's  face 
was  crimson  with  fury.  She  would  have  liked  to  tear 
out  all  the  mocking  eyes  now  regarding  her. 

"Not  even  a  tiger,"  Howard  informed  her  cheer- 
fully. 

"Nary  cannibal,"  the  Judge  added,  with  facetious 
looks  and  stepping  about  on  tiptoe  as  if  in  mortal 
fear  of  bogies. 

"I  saw  him!  I  saw  .  .  ."  Words  failed  her. 
She  played  her  card  blindly,   and  took  the  trick. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      207 

This  was  the  last  straw,  as  far  as  Corinne  was  con- 
cerned. 

"Mamma!  It's  my  trick!"  She  snatched  it 
away  from  her  mother  with  trembHng  hands.  Her 
nerves  were  taut  from  the  scare  she  had  received,  for 
the  wild  shriek  had  been  sent  almost  into  her  ear. 
It  proved  the  last  straw  for  Mrs.  Witherby  also. 

"Corinne!"  she  thundered.  ''This  is  too  much! 
Do  you  suppose  your  mother  is  going  to  sit  here  the 
whole  evening  and  not  take  a  single  trick.?  How 
dare  you  assert  yourself  so .? " 

Corinne  threw  down  her  cards  and  burst  into  ex- 
plosive sobs. 

"I  don't — I  didn't — I  never  did.  It  was  my 
trick."     Wells  patted  her  shoulder  affectionately. 

"There,  there,  dear  child.     Don't  cry." 

"What's  this?"  the  Judge  asked.  "Our  merry 
Corinne  in  tears  \ " 

"No  one  thinks  of  w^,  the  mother!"  Mrs.  Witherby 
whimpered. 

"She — she — is  always  like  that  when  she  plays 
cards.  What  has — a — mother  to  do  with  trumps — 
and  things.?" 

"Oh,  you  heartless  child!  And  after  the  terrible 
fright  I've  had!  Judge  GifFen,  your  arm.  I  am  not 
well." 

"Eh,  what?"  The  Judge  resented  nothing  so 
much  as  being  asked  to  leave  his  chess.     "Oh — yes 


2o8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

— with  pleasure.  Let  us  seek  the — ah — sympathetic 
seclusion  of  the  dining  room,  eh?  Mrs.  Mearely 
spoke  of  sandwiches.  Yes — ah — a  sustaining  sand- 
wich." 

"I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful.  Fm  so  upset.  Co- 
rinne's  behaviour — and — oh,  Judge — that  dreadful 
face!     Oh,  if  you'd  seen  the  villainous  whiskers!" 

"Yes — yes — a  little — ah — salad.  A  glass  of 
Amanda's  parsnip  wine."  He  guided  her  into  the 
dining  room. 

"Shall  we  also  refresh  the  inner  soul.  Miss  Co- 
rinne?"  Mr.  Albert  Andrews  asked,  with  gallantry. 

"Now  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Mearely  has  pro- 
vided creams  and  a  fine  array  of  iridescent  jellies 
to  delight  the  youthful  palate.  Go  with  Andrews, 
dear  child." 

Corinne  threw  her  arms  around  Dr.  Wells's  neck. 

"I  think  you  are  just  too  dear  for  anything,  Dr. 
Wells.     I  wish  I  could  have  you  for  a  father." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  he  answered  absently.  "Er — 
that  is — thank  you,  my  dear.  You  are  a  very  sweet 
girl,  Corinne.  Yes — considering  the  circumstances 
— a  remarkably  sweet  girl,"  he  added  as  the  dining- 
room  door  closed  behind  the  couple.  He  rose,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  pocket. 

"Do  you  find  Aunt  Emma  wearing,  doctor?" 
Mabel  inquired  flippantly.     "Some  do." 

"Oh,  no,  no!     What  a  sad  idea.     I  shall  go  out 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      209 

now  and  have  a  pipe  in  the  moonlight,  and  all  the 
little  cares  will  blow  away  with  the  smoke." 

"Don't  let  Mrs.  Witherby's  wild  man  get  you," 
Howard  urged,  laughing. 

"Te-he-he!  the  good  lady  is  so  excitable;  but 
she  means  well.  I  leave  you  to  the  pleasant  task  of 
dispelling  pessimistic  ideas  from  Miss  Crewe's  lovely 
head."  He  went  out  on  tiptoe,  with  extravagant 
antics  of  mock  caution. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE'S  a  nice  old  chap,"  Howard  remarked.  She  did 
not  answer.  He  desired,  at  all  hazards,  to  avoid 
an  intimate  talk  so  stepped  quickly  toward  the  supper 
room  as  if  to  open  the  door.  "Let  me  conduct  you  to 
the  crackers  and  cheese,"  he  said  with  forced  lightness. 

"No.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"This  is  hardly  a  good  opportunity,"  he  pleaded. 

"Come  here,  please."  He  hesitated  only  briefly; 
something  new  in  her  to-night  warned  him  that  it 
would  be  unwise  to  gainsay  her. 

"Wilton,  I  am  being  talked  about — too  much. 
Talk  does  things,  after  awhile.  When  is  this  going 
to  end .? "  Her  voice  was  strained  with  her  effort  to 
control  herself. 

"  What  .^ "     His  face  was  turned  from  her. 

"When  can  I  go  to  my  aunt  and  tell  her  that  you 
have  asked  me  to  marry  you.?  She  persecutes  me 
about  it." 

"When  you  can  answer  your  aunt's  first  question 
— *what  are  you  and  your  husband  going  to  live 
on?' "  he  replied  glumly. 

"Oh,  the  same  old  story.  I'm  sick  of  it.  When  a 
man  loves  he  doesn't  think  of  money." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      211 

Her  tone  cut  into  him.  Her  contempt  was  not 
easy  to  bear. 

"I  do  love  you,"  he  asserted  hotly,  "but  how  could 
I  support  you?  Fve  never  worked.  I  can't  earn  a 
round  sum  at  anything.  But  for  cousin  Hibbert 
Mearel'y's  little  legacy,  Fd  have  been  on  the  parish 
long  ago.  You  and  I  can't  live  any  life  but  this. 
We're  not  pioneer  stuflF.  If  we  eloped  to  the  swamps, 
the  gnats  would  eat  us — that's  all." 

"Don't  talk  Uke  that!  It  sounds  so  cowardly. 
You  must  think  of  me.  I  can't  face  any  more  talk, 
and  Aunt  Emma's  sneers     .     .     ." 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that.  Mabel,  we  must  face 
facts  squarely." 

"What  do  you  mean.?"  tremulously. 

"Our  situation  is  hopeless.  We  can't  marry. 
The  only  thing  for  us  to  do     .     .     ." 

"I  know,"  she  broke  in  bitterly.  "I've  heard  you 
say  that  before,  but  I  didn't  believe  you  meant  it. 
We  must  separate  and  marry  money;  if  we  can." 

"Has  society  provided  any  other  way  of  life  for 
merely  useless  men  like  me,  and  merely  ornamental 
women  like  you .? " 

She  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  studied  his  face  to 
find  the  reason  for  a  mood  so  positive  and  malign. 
Across  the  screen  of  her  thoughts  floated  a  rose-andr 
silver  gown — and  she  cried  out  as  if  she  had  been 
struck. 


212      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"I've  been  blind!  I  see  it  now.  You  mean  to 
marry  Rosamond." 

"  What  an  idea ! "  awkwardly,  his  eyes  avoiding  hers. 

"Don't  try  to  deceive  me.  You  may  as  well  ad- 
mit it.  You've  told  me  you  mean  to  throw  me  aside 
for  some  rich  woman.  Is  it  Rosamond?  Yes,  of 
course,  it  is!  What  has  she  done  to  make  you  think 
you  have  a  chance  with  her?"  She  caught  hold  of 
his  arm  and  turned  him  to  her. 

"Nothing,"  he  sneered;  "but  I  suspect  it  works 
both  ways — this  benign  social  law  with  its  talk. 
It  won't  let  us  marry — because  we're  poor.  Well, 
it  won't  let  her  alone,  either — because  she's  rich. 
This  is  Rosamond's  fourth  year  of  widowhood. 
Gossip  has  its  eye  on  her.  She'll  have  to  marry. 
I  am  a  kinsman — being  a  distant  cousin  of  her  de- 
parted husband's.  That  gives  me  a  more  familiar 
footing  here.  Gossip  will  naturally  pick  me  out  as 
the  most  likely  bridegroom.  In  other  words,  don't 
let  their  miserable,  superwise  social  code  crush  you, 
but  twist  it  round  and  use  it  to  your  own  advantage." 

The  passion  in  her  face  seemed  to  blend  all  the 
bitter  emotions — scorn,  jealousy,  deep  anger — ^with 
a  fierce  resolve. 

"I  see,"  she  answered  presently,  "I  haven't  any 
illusions  about  you,  Wilton.  I  had  once,  of  course. 
You're  selfish.  You  don't  really  care  what  happens 
to    anybody   but   yourself.     While   this    thing   has 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      213 

dragged  on  and  you  have  put  ofF  making  it  an  open 
engagement,  Fve  hoped  and  suffered  everything — 
and  you've  let  me.  You  know  that  we  couldn't 
walk  along  the  river-path  three  times  together  with- 
out all  Roseborough  chattering  about  it  and  wonder- 
ing whether  you  would  marry  me — and  then  sneering 
at  me  because  there  was  no  announcement.  You  do 
care  for  me — more  than  you  can  ever  care  for  any 
one  but  yourself.  I'm  not  afraid  of  poverty — or 
work.  Merely  ornamental  you  called  me!  I  do 
everything  at  Aunt  Emma's — excepting  the  roughest 
work.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  she'd  be  fair  enough  to 
say  that  I  am  not  living  on  her  charity,  but  that  I 
earn  what  she  gives  me.  Don't  you  suppose  I  could 
drudge  for  you  and  myself  as  I  do  for  her  and  Co- 
rinne.^  And  I'd  have  my  own  home — even  if  it  was 
only  two  rooms,  and  not  be  slighted  and  treated  con- 
temptuously as  a  poor  hanger-on."  A  hard,  dry 
sob  shook  her.  "I  wont  go  back  to  that  awful  Hfe 
with  aunt — ^without  you — without  any  hope.  You 
can't  be  so  cruel  to  me." 

Howard  winced.  He  had  natural  feeling  enough 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself;  and  his  emotion  for  her  was 
stirred  by  her  intensity. 

"  Mabel,  dear,  need  you  say  all  this .?  You  know  I 
love  you.  You  have  said  so.  But — it's  hopeless. 
I  haven't  enough  to  keep  us  even  in  the  poorest  com- 
fort.    We've  got  to  end  it." 


214      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMONDT 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  delude  yourself.  I  will  not  be  given  up. 
You  came  and  sought  me  and  paid  me  atten- 
tions. You  let  me  think  you  meant  to  marry  me. 
And  I've  let  you  kiss  me.  I  suppose  that  doesn't 
mean  anything  to  a  man.  But  it  does  to  a  girl. 
I  kissed  you  as  the  man  I  was  going  to  belong  to. 
I'd  feel  degraded  if  I  could  change.  No,  Wilton. 
You  have  brought  something  into  power  in  me  that 
you  will  have  to  reckon  with.  It  controls  me  ut- 
terly; and  I  mean  that  it  shall  govern  you,  too. 
You  shall  never  marry  Rosamond  or  any  one  but  me. 
I  will  stop  it  somehow.  I'll  give  Aunt  Emma  some- 
thing worth  while  to  talk  about!" 

"Hush!  Don't  talk  so  wildly.  If  there  were 
really  a  pot  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  don't 
you  suppose  I'd  rather  set  off  with  you  to  find  it?'* 

He  took  her  into  his  arms  suddenly.  She  yielded 
to  his  embrace,  as  if  it  soothed  the  wound  he  had 
dealt  her  love  and  her  faith. 

"Oh,  Mabel,  I've  ceased  to  feel  responsibility 
about  anything.  I'm  simply  a  product  of  this 
bloodless,  stagnant  little  village.  Conditions  rule 
individuals.     Accept  the  facts,  dear,  and  be  wise." 

She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  If  her  resolu- 
tion did  not  falter,  tenderness  overflowed  it  for  the 
moment.  She  recognized  that  what  he  said  of  him- 
self was  true — "the  product  of  a  bloodless,  stagnant 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      215 

village."  She  thought  that  he  did  not  love  her  less 
than  she  loved  him,  but  that  he  believed  that  the 
Roseborough  which  had  shaped  him  must  conquer 
him;  whereas,  she,  of  more  rebellious  clay,  had  thrown 
down  the  gauntlet  to  Roseborough.  They  clung  to 
each  other  recklessly,  then  tore  apart,  because  they 
heard  Rosamond's  voice  in  the  garden  and  the  doc- 
tor's answering. 

Regaining  a  show  of  composure,  they  went 
into  the  dining  room.  The  doctor — entering  with 
Rosamond  and  Frei — was  induced  by  his  hostess's 
urging  to  risk  his  digestion  with  "one  small  sand- 
wich and  a  thimbleful  of  wine." 

Frei  was  humming,  with  a  bland  and  childlike 
look  on  his  face.  He  picked  up  his  violin  from  the 
desk  where  he  had  laid  it  and  put  it  into  its  case. 

"Will  you  not  sup,  too.f"'  she  asked  him. 

"No,  I  thank  you."  He  came  toward  her.  "My 
body  needs  no  salads,  for  my  soul  is  satisfied.  I  have 
found  a  place  where  there  is  no  criticism;  where  the 
memorial  fountains  of  kindness  are  unsealed — and  the 
waters  do  arrive.  Here,  in  Roseborough — *here, 
where  all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere' — surely  I 
shall  find  at  last  a  beautiful  woman  to  love  me  for 
myself  alone." 

"Why  not?"  she  said  kindly.  "It  is  given  to 
every  man     .     .     .' 

She  stopped  in  quoting  what  she,  herself,  had  said 


2i6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

to  him  in  the  orchard,  because  of  the  change  in  his 
face.  He  strode  forward  and  gazed  intently  into 
her  eyes. 

"Ach!"  he  cried,  as  if  she  had  now  burst  upon  his 
sight  for  the  first  time.  ''You  are  beautiful!"  He 
seized  hen  hand.  "Could  you  love  me  for  myself 
alone?" 

"Oh — oh!"  She  was  startled.  "I  think  your 
music  would  share  in  any  love  given  to  you,"  she 
parried. 

"That  I  permit.     My  music  is  me." 

"Oh,  yes;  but — it  is  also  Tschaikowsky,  Beet- 
hoven, Mendelssohn,  Chopin     .     .     ." 

Instantly  his  head  drooped  and  his  face  was  over- 
cast with  gloom. 

"True.  I  am  nothing — but  to  play  the  tunes  of 
others."  He  sighed  heavily.  Then,  recovering  from 
this  humour,  he  drew  himself  up  with  a  regal  air. 
"I  will  overlook  your  birth  and  station,  because 
you  are  beautiful  and  good.  Here — here  in  Rose- 
borough — ^with  your  devotion  to  console  me;  here — 
in  this  peaceful  village — is  my  journey's  end.  Later, 
when  you  have  won  my  confidence  by  your  service- 
able affection,  I  will  reveal  to  you  certain  matters. 
These  may  prevent  our  marriage " 


(C 


Er — oh — I    mean    aren't    you    a    little    precipi- 
tate    .     .     .     ?" 

He  waved  her  to  silence. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      217 

"If  our  union  be  prevented,  I  shall  still  regard  you 
with  a  noble  and  platonic  affection.  And  you  will 
be  forever  faithful  and  devoted  to  me."  He  was 
obliged  to  conclude  abruptly,  for  the  other  guests 
came  in  from  the  supper  room. 

"Mercy!"  Rosamond  said,  under  her  breath,  and 
removed  herself  from  the  impetuous  musician's  prox- 
imity as  quickly  as  possible. 

"Well,  we're  off,"  the  Judge  announced.  "Our 
lovely  ladies  must  not  lose  their  beauty  sleep.  It 
must  be  far  along  after  nine." 

Mrs.  Witherby  plucked  at  her  hostess's  sleeve. 

"Now,  are  you  sure  there's  to  be  no  interesting 
little  item  given  out,  to  match  that  gown .?  I  find  it 
almost  impossible  to  believe  it  was  put  on  only  for 
us.  Well,"  as  she  saw  Rosamond  frown,  "keep 
your  secret."  She  was  half  way  to  the  door,  when 
she  turned  back  and  said :  "Oh,  do — do  let  me  leave 
our  Thomas.  I  can  drive  myself  home.  I  feel  so 
alarmed  about  you.  I  can't  endure  the  thought  of 
your  being  alone.  I  wonder  you  didn't  tell  me  about 
it.  Blake  told  the  toll-man  and  the  toll-man  told 
Johnson,  the  butcher's  boy.  So  it's  publicly  known 
that  you  are  alone  in  this  house  to-night!"  She 
was  working  herself  up  to  a  lively  pitch,  ignoring 
attempts  at  interruption  from  the  Judge,  who  had  had 
quite  enough  of  her  and  her  fears  for  one  evening. 
"I  assure  you  that  just  now  I  saw     ..." 


2i8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mabel  led  the  burst  of  laughter  which  put  an  end 
to  her  discourse.  It  was  useless  to  talk  against  such 
a  gale  of  hilarity.  Rosamond  caught  the  infection 
and  laughed  as  unrestrainedly  as  the  rest. 

"It  is  so  good  to  laugh/'  she  said;/* I  never  miss 
the  opportunity.  But  please  tell  me  what  I  am 
laughing  at." 

Dr.  Wells  with  little  snickers,  and  glancing  side- 
wise  at  Mrs.  Witherby  to  see  how  far  he  dared  pro- 
voke her — that  he  might  go  just  one  step  further — 
undertook  to  enlighten  her. 

"Te-he — our  dear  Mrs.  Witherby  saw  a  spotted 
cannibal  peering  in  at  the  window;  te-he-he." 

"'Twas — ah — Oolabaloo,  the — ah — Matabele  wild 
man."     The  Judge  was  airily  facetious. 

"He  wore  a  battle  club  and  a  wreath  of  daisies, 
the  evening  being  cool,"  Wilton  Howard  supple- 
mented, whereupon  every  one  roared  again;  except 
Dr.  Frei,  whose  foreign  intellect  did  not  adapt  it- 
self readily  to  Anglo-Saxon  humour.  He  was  re- 
garding the  infuriated  lady  with  sympathy  and 
credence. 

"But  if  she  says  she  saw  something  .  .  ."  he 
protested  in  her  behalf,  only  to  draw  forth  another 
peal  of  mirth. 

He  turned  to  Rosamond  solicitously.  "There  is 
danger  to  you?" 

"Oh,  no!  none.     Tramps  never  come  to  Rosebor- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      219 

ough.  Besides,  I — I  have  a  pistol — though  IVe 
never  shot  anything  but  bottles  and  rabbits,  and 
never  expect  to!" 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  not  easily  overborne  at  any 
time,  less  than  ever  when  she  knew  she  was  not  in- 
venting. 

"I  tell  you,  I  saw  distinctly  .  .  ."  She 
took  a  few  steps  toward  the  verandah,  in  order  to 
point  out  the  exact  spot  where  the  face  had  appeared. 
It  happened,  unfortunately,  that  every  one  was  look- 
ing at  her  and  laughing,  instead  of  following  the  di- 
rection of  her  pointing  finger.  Once  again,  hers  were 
the  only  eyes  to  see  the  swarthy  face  raised,  this 
time  till  the  tip  of  its  nose  was  level  with  the  rail.  She 
screamed  in  long,  piercing  wails.     The  face  withdrew. 

"There! — there! — again! — I  saw     .     .     .     !" 

Every  one  laughed  again  except  Frei.  Mrs. 
Mearely,  forgetful  of  her  acquired  deportment,  put 
her  hands  on  her  hips  and  swayed  with  the  ripples  of 
her  joy.  Dr.  Wells  doubled  up  and  choked,  till  the 
Judge  was  obliged  to  pat  him  on  the  back  with  a  hand 
weak  from  his  own  mirth.  The  farewells  were  lost 
in  the  echoes  of  laughter. 

"You  think  you  really  saw  something?"  Frei 
asked,  as  he  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Witherby,  who 
was  trembhng  from  alarm  and  insult. 

"I  shall  notify  the  authorities.  I  am  quite  posi- 
tive I  saw  him — absolutely  positive!'' 


220      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

**  Don't  let  mamma  frighten  you,  Dr.  Frei. 
Wait  till  you  know  her  as  well  as  I  do ! ''  Corinne  sup- 
pressed her  giggles  long  enough  to  kiss  her  hostess 
good-night.     She  ran  out  after  her  mother. 

"Coming,  Howard  ?"  asked  Wells  over  his  shoulder. 

"ril  catch  up  with  you  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  I 
think  ril  satisfy  myself  that  my  cousin's  bolts  and 
bars  are  all  in  working  order." 

"Te-he — our  poor,  dear  Mrs.  Witherby — such 
imagination!"  The  doctor  waved  his  hand,  smiling, 
and  went  out. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Mearely." 

Rosamond  had  gone  to  the  verandah  rail  to  wave 
her  guests  down  the  hill.  She  was  slightly  startled 
to  come  upon  Miss  Crewe  standing  in  the  shadow, 
and  evidently  watching  Howard. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "I  hear  your  aunt  call- 
ing you."  She  was  aware  of  a  sombre  flash  from 
Mabel's  dark  eyes;  then  the  slender  figure  moved 
oflF  with  leisurely  pace  and  the  bearing  of  a  princess — 
at  least,  so  Rosamond,  in  her  own  mind,  described 
Miss  Crewe's  walk.  One  by  one,  the  carts  and  bug- 
gies started  round  the  gravel  drive  to  the  hill-road. 
As  they  passed  just  under  the  jut  where  the  house 
stood,  Mrs.  Mearely  leaned  over  the  rail  and  called 
her  good-nights. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SHE  loitered  on  the  step,  even  after  the  sound  of 
wheels  grew  dim.  Her  eyes  feasted  on  the 
golden  river  and  her  ears  caught  the  pleasant  notes  of 
insects  and  night  birds;  but  her  mind  was  alert  and 
practical  to  the  moment.  Out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  she  could  see  Howard,  standing  by  the  chimney- 
piece  and  leaning  upon  it  in  a  handsome  and  famihar 
attitude.  He  could  not  have  looked  more  at  home  if 
he  had  owned  the  house.  A  sense  of  anger  stirred  in 
her. 

"If  he  were  old  I  could  understand  it.  Old  men 
naturally  want  a  snug  home  to  die  in!"  Then,  as 
was  habitual  with  her,  amusement  took  the  place  of 
indignation.  "To-morrow  Til  hang  a  crape  bow  and 
streamers  between  my  shoulder-blades  and  go  my 
way  in  lonesome  peace." 

Thinking  that  she  might  as  well  have  it  over  with, 
she  went  indoors  slowly.  She  looked  quizzically  at 
Howard  as  she  said,  with  pointed  emphasis  on  the 
degree  of  relationship : 

"Well,  Mr.  Fifth-Cousin-by-Marriage,  what  is 
this  legend  about  my  bolts  and  bars.f*  I  shall  leave 
my  windows  open  as  usual,  I  suppose." 

221 


222      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Oh!  that  was  an  excuse,  of  course — and  a  thin 
one.  Dear  Rosamond,  I  wonder  if  you  have  any 
idea  why  I  have  lingered  ?" 

His  assumption  of  tenderness  did  not  please  her. 
She  sank  into  the  big  chair  by  the  settee,  making  her- 
self comfortable  with  cushions  and  footstool.  If  she 
must  hear  another  proposal  of  marriage  that  day, 
she  would  at  least  hear  it  at  her  ease. 

"Fve  seen  it  taking  shape,  but  I  did  hope  you 
wouldn't,"  she  said  shortly. 

"Wouldn't  what.?"  in  surprise,  for  no  indication 
of  her  humour  had  reached  him. 

"Propose.  That  is  what  you  are  about  to  do, 
isn't  it.?"  She  let  him  see  that  she  felt  a  maHcious 
enjoyment  in  his  embarrassment. 

Howard  had  been  totally  unprepared  for  her  sally 
and  he  resented  being  made  to  look  foolish;  but, 
after  the  first  hesitation,  he  decided  to  go  on,  accord- 
ing to  his  plan.  Rosamond  must  marry;  if  she  did 
not  know  that  she  must  marry,  he  would  soon  con- 
vince her  that  a  prolonged  and  colourful  widowhood, 
with  honour,  could  not  be  her  portion  in  Rosebor- 
ough.  She  must  marry,  and  where  could  she  find  a 
more  suitable  husband  than  himself?  (Like  Judge 
GifFen  and  Mr.  Albert  Andrews,  he  also  consid- 
ered himself  her  inevitable  choice.) 

"Perhaps  I  ought  hardly  to  go  so  far  without 
more     preparation;    but — er — Rosamond,    jealousy 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      22s 

of  your  friendship  with  the  musical  newcomer  to 
Roseborough  has  made  me  seem  precipitate.  But 
I  have  desired  to  say  all  this  to  you  for  a  long 
time." 

He  was  young,  magnetic,  and  of  her  own  race,  and 
suddenly  her  longing  for  comradeship  went  out  to 
him. 

"Oh,  Wilton,"  she  almost  pleaded,  "I  don't  want 
to  marry  you.  I  won't  say  that  I  never  mean  to 
marry,  because  some  one  might  come.  Yet,  if  he  were 
interesting  enough  to  love,  why  would  he  ever  come 
to  Roseborough  .f*  No,  I  couldn't  love  Dr.  Frei. 
But  I  wish  I  could  marry  the  song  of  his  fiddle  and  be 
blown  off  on  the  wind  with  my  bridegroom  a  thou- 
sand leagues  from  here." 

**My  dear  girl,  have  you  not  lived  happily  here, 
where  you  are  beloved  by  all?" 

She  made  a  wry  face. 

"Can't  even  you  understand  me  a  little?  You're 
young.'* 

"I  wish  to  understand  you,  above  everything." 

"Can't  you  guess  what  it's  been  like,  underneath 
the — the — velvet  surface  ?  When  I  was  a  poor  young 
girl  in  Poplars  Vale  I  longed  for  a  finished  education 
and  a  high  station.  Hibbert  Mearely  was  fifty-three 
when  my  ingenuous  countenance  met  his  collector's 
eye.  He  put  me  here — as  a  living  ornament — 
among  his  paintings  and  his  books  and  antiques  where 


224      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

everything  is  old  and  stable  and  has  a  set  value. 
Look  at  the  chairs;  when  you  sit  down,  you  feel  you 
are  settled  there  for  life — and  will  not  move  again 
till  some  one  carries  you  to  the  churchyard.  I  came 
here  so  proudly — to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  fine,  dis- 
tinguished gentleman.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
wonderful  life — ^with  all  this, "  she  waved  her  hands 
to  indicate  the  furnishings  of  Mr.  Mearely's  museum. 
**But  it  wasn't.  It  was  dreadful.  In  its  heart, 
Roseborough  still  regards  me  as  an  alien  and  an 
upstart.  My  mother  once  sold  butter.  They  re- 
member that.  They  are  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
rub  it  in.  Now  that  my  crape  is  two  years  behind 
me,  the  three  or  four  bachelors  and  the  five  widow- 
ers are  eager  to  pounce  on  me  with  marriage.  And 
all  the  women  are  ready  to  destroy  me  with  gossip." 

She  ceased  abruptly,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him 
with  a  plea  for  help,  for  friendship  and  an  open  door 
of  escape  that  should  not  bear  the  sign  "Matri- 
mony" on  the  centre  panel.  Howard  took  her 
hands  and  bent  over  them,  giving  her  the  benefit, 
too,  of  his  magnetic  and  confident  smile.  He  saw 
in  her  appeal  exactly  the  opportunity  he  needed. 

"That,  partly,  is  what  hastens  my  oflPer.  Gossip 
is  inevitable.  Why  not  forestall  it.?  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  a  young  woman  cannot  remain  alone — 
more  especially  if  she  is  a  widow,  and  beautiful." 
He  kissed  her  hand. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      225 

"And  rich,"  she  said  dryly — as  if  completing  his 
sentence  for  him — and  withdrew  her  hand. 

"I — er — I  hope  you  do  not  do  me  that  injus- 
tice."    He  spoke  with  hurt  dignity. 

"Oh,  certainly  not,"  she  answered  flippantly. 
"That  is  always  understood  in  offers  of  this  kind." 

Howard  was  becoming  angry  He  told  himself 
that  he  had  not  given  up  Mabel,  whom  he  loved,  and 
done  the  butter-maker's  daughter  the  honour  to 
offer  her  himself  in  marriage,  in  order  to  let  her  in- 
sult him  as  the  mood  swayed  her.  He  spoke  calmly 
but  with  the  accents  of  a  superior. 

"You  are  cynical,  my  dear.  Are  you  worldly- 
wise  enough  to  realize  that  Roseborough  will  make 
you  marry?" 

She  walked  away  from  him  across  the  room. 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  One  Hnk  after  another  in  the 
chain  about  me  till  Fm  crushed  flat,"  desperately—^ 
"and  oXd^old!"  A  sob  escaped  her.  She  picked 
up  the  pack  of  cards  and  tossed  them  loose  over  the 
table,  as  if  her  last  chance  of  happiness  were  proved 
no  more  than  bits  of  pasteboard  and  she  had  cast  it 
from  her  as  worthless.  Wilton,  thinking  her  agita- 
tion in  his  favour,  went  to  her. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  eyeing  him  resentfully,  "it 
might  as  well  be  you  as  any  one." 

"Might  it  not  better  be  I  than  any  one?"  he  de- 
manded, capturing  her  hand  again. 


226      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  replied,  considering  it 
impersonally.     "You're  young." 

"Then  it  is  *yes'.?"  ardently. 

She  pulled  her  hand  away  and  came  out  of  her 
abstraction. 

"Good  gracious,  no!"  bluntly.  "Not  so  fast, 
cousin.  I  am  much  too  sleepy  to  decide  anything 
so  important  to-night.  Besides,  to-night  I  am  in 
love  with  the  song  of  the  fiddle.  And  you  are  not 
that  song!"     She  sighed. 

"A  much  more  substantial  lover,"  he  answered 
laughingly. 

"Stupid  thing!"  she  thought.  "I  suppose  you 
think  your  'substantial*  person  has  more  power  to 
stir  me  than  the  echoes  of  Tschaikowsky!" 

"And  when.?"  he  began. 

"Do  say  good-night,  like  a  good  fellow.  I  am  so 
tired.  I  want  to  go  to  bed  at  once — and  sleep  for- 
ever." She  walked  out  to  the  verandah,  compelHng 
him  to  follow.     "I'll  think  you  over." 

"I  hope  you'll  think  kindly,"  he  said,  with  a  soft- 
ness in  his  voice  and  his  eyes  that  he  had  not  shown 
her  before.  But  Mabel  could  have  told  her  how  one 
woman,  at  least,  yearned  to  him  because  of  that 
note  in  his  gamut,  for  which  he  deserved  as  little 
credit  as  for  the  shape  of  his  nose. 

"Oh,  Wilton!  I  am  so — so  tired!"  Her  lip  quiv- 
ered.    "Nothing  but  this   same  narrow  little  life, 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      227 

over  and  over — daily — yearly!  Oh!  Look  at  the 
river,  running  away  so  swiftly  and  freely;  it  is  the 
only  thing  that  ever  came  to  Roseborough  and  got 
away  again!  Every  time  I  look  at  it,  I  think  it  is 
laughing  at  me.  It  laughed  at  me  down  there  in 
Poplars  Vale.  It  mocks  me  more  cruelly  here,  with 
its  swift  journeying  to — somewhere.'' 

Turning  to  him,  in  her  irrepressible  longing  for 
sympathy,  she  saw  that  he  did  not  understand  her 
in  the  least,  but  was  studying  how  he  might  best 
impress  her  by  a  loverlike  pose. 

"  ril  think  you  over,"  she  promised  airily.  "  Good- 
night. Go,  before  I  fall  asleep  at  your  feet,"  she 
added,  with  the  rather  cruel  intimation  that  there 
was  nothing  about  his  wooing  which  could  conquer 
her  boredom.  By  a  quick,  vigorous  handshake  she 
prevented  him  from  kissing  her  fingers  again.  She 
caught  up  his  cap  and  gloves  from  the  settle  and 
pressed  them  into  his  arms.  He  went  out,  smiling; 
for  he  beHeved  this  haste  to  be  rid  of  him  was  in 
reality  a  tribute  to  his  irresistible  powers  of  fascina- 
tion. 

** Good-night,    dear    Rosamond.  Good-night. 

Sleep  soundly,"  he  called  from  below  the  wall,  as 
his  dog-cart  went  by. 

Rosamond  made  no  reply.  She  stood  by  the  rail, 
looking  at  the  ** velvety  star-veined  night"  and  the 
river.     The  noise  of  wheels   died   down;   the  only 


228      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

sound  was  the  chirring  of  crickets.  She  turned  off 
the  verandah  Hght.  She  came  into  the  room  and 
went  about,  methodically  putting  out  all  the  individ- 
ual lamps  but  one.  This  she  left  on  for  a  purpose, 
it  appeared;  because,  presently,  she  found  a  little 
leather-bound  book  on  the  flower-stand  by  the 
fireplace,  and  slid  up  into  a  corner  of  the  settee  with 
it.  In  settling  herself  she  almost  knocked  a  paper 
off  the  arm-piece. 

"Dear  me,''  she  said  aloud.  "The  Judge's  sacred 
Digest  !  How  could  he  have  forgotten  it .?  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Witherby's  hysterics  must  have  put  it  out  of 
his  head." 

She  glanced  at  it  idly  and  her  eye  was  caught  by 
the  first  column. 

"Corinne's  runaway  prince!"  She  smiled,  and 
began  to  read.  When  she  had  perused  the  story  she 
laid  the  Digest  aside,  musing  on  the  Royal  Highness 
whose  heart  was  so  oddly  in  tune  with  her  own. 

"Eccentric — romantic — artistic,"  she  repeated. 
"  Fond  of  wandering  about  incognito — and  entering 
humble  dwellings — and  making  friends.  Making 
friends."     She  dwelt  wistfully  on  the  last  words. 

The  little  copy  of  Browning  opened  naturally  at 
the  place  she  sought;  and  she  need  not  have  opened 
it  at  all,  for  she  knew  by  heart  the  lines  she  loved. 
This,  it  may  be  pointed  out,  was  not  her  late  master's 
"first   edition,"   autographed   by   Princess  Victoria 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      229 

for  sale  at  the  Indian  Famine  Relief  Bazaar.  She 
had  bought  this  copy  for  herself  and  loved  it  for  its 
contents,  not  for  its  binding  nor  for  a  scrawl  on  its 
fly-leaf.     Softly,  she  said  the  lines: 

"*  While  not  a  man  of  them  broke  rank  and  spoke, 
Or  wrote  me  a  vulgar  letter  all  of  love, 
Or  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  like  a  hand. 
There  have  been  moments  if  the  sentinel, 
Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 
Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 
I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul.'" 

She  laid  the  book  on  the  stand  and  sat  quite  still 
and  silent  for  some  time,  then  she  murmured : 

"We're  all  alike,  the  queen  and  I,  Corinne  and  her 
runaway  prince.  I  wonder  if  all  the  world  is  long- 
ing just  for — something  different.?" 

The  large  room  was  almost  dark;  its  only  light 
came  from  the  one  Httle  lamp  on  the  mantel,  which 
cast  its  dim  halo  upon  her,  and  from  the  open  door 
of  the  music  room.  Outside,  the  moon,  the  stars, 
and  the  river  shed  their  mystic  radiance  over  and 
through  the  slumbering  valley. 

"If  there  could  only  have  been  one  word  from 
some  one — one  note  out  of  the  earth  or  the  sky — to 
promise  me  something     .     .     ." 

Clear,  mellow,  and  resonant,  one  note  rang  out 
from  the  tower  and  rolled  like  an  invisible  golden 
wheel  up  the  hills  and  down  the  valley. 


230      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

Rosamond  sat  up,  straining  her  ears. 

**The  tower  bell!"  she  whispered.  "It  rang! — 
once!     And  it  never  rings  after  six!'' 

The  sound  was  not  repeated,  and,  after  a  time,  she 
began  to  ask  herself  if  perhaps  she  had  not  nodded 
for  a  second  and  dreamed  that  she  heard  the  bell. 
She  rose  and  went  into  the  dining  room  to  turn  off 
the  lights.  Then  she  put  out  the  little  lamp  on  the 
chimney-piece  and  passed  into  the  music  room  where 
she  busied  herself  in  replacing  the  Tschaikowsky 
album  in  the  music  rack  and  in  closing  the  piano. 
The  last  duty  here  was  to  turn  out  the  tall  stand- 
lamp. 

"I  wonder  did  I  dream  that  bell.?"  she  queried,  as 
she  came  back  to  the  living  room. 

If  she  had  not  been  wondering  so  absorbedly  about 
the  bell,  she  might  have  heard  another  and  slighter 
noise  much  closer  at  hand.  That  noise  was  the 
sound  of  a  light-footed  creature  terminating  a  leap 
in  the  centre  of  her  verandah.  Just  prior  to  that 
sound,  a  man's  figure  had  been  silhouetted  against 
the  moonlit  sky,  as  he  climbed  nimbly  and  stood  an 
instant  on  the  railing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN  Rosamond  stepped  over  the  threshold 
she  was  conscious  of  motion  in  the  Hving  room. 
She  stood  still  and  strained  her  eyes  into  the  dusk 
of  the  room.  She  saw  a  figure  emerge  from  the 
shadows  and,  feeling  its  way  about,  arrive  at  the 
table  behind  the  settee  which  supported  one  of  Mr. 
Hibbert  Mearely's  genuine  antiques — a  bronze  vase. 

"Ah!  What's  this.?"  he  muttered,  as  his  fingers 
felt  about  its  design. 

Rosamond  knew  now  that  the  impossible  had  oc- 
curred: a  burglar  had  come  to  Roseborough.  Her 
knees  evinced  a  tendency  to  fold  up  and  let  her  shak- 
ing body  find  support  upon  the  floor;  but  her  soul 
was  not  a  coward.  She  held  her  breath  and  tiptoed 
to  the  desk.  Noiselessly,  she  pulled  out  the  drawer 
and  closed  her  clammy  fingers  about  the  pistol. 
The  dining  room  and  quarters  beyond  provided  the 
best  channels  of  escape,  if  she  must  flee,  so  she  crept 
across  the  room  behind  the  marauder,  just  as  he 
moved  toward  the  chimney-piece,  where  the  Louis 
XV  snufF-boxes  were  set  all  in  a  row  and  ticketed. 

"Stop! — stop!"  She  quavered  sternly,  pointing 
the  pistol  at  him. 

231 


232      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

He  wheeled  sharply  and  exclaimed  in  surprise: 

**0h!     Are  you  up?  er— I  beg     .     .     ." 

"''Who  are  you?"  she  demanded,  with  an  access  of 
courage  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  not  immediately 
murdered  her.  She  recalled  that,  in  books,  one 
always  firmly  and  at  once  asked  a  masked  assassin 
or  highwayman  to  disclose  his  identity. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  **that  is  what  I  was  about  to  ask 
you." 

''Who — are — you?'*  She  wondered  if  that  high, 
wavering  voice  was  hers. 

A  sound  came  from  him  which  she  could  not  asso- 
ciate with  any  emotion  of  fear  or  shame,  proper  to  a 
burglarious  tramp  caught  in  the  act.  He  removed 
his  hat  with  a  sweep,  and  bowed. 

**  Madam,  I  am  a  bird  of  the  air,  seeking  my  meat 
from  God." 

Noting  his  accent,  which  was  that  of  an  educated 
man,  Mrs.  Mearely's  alarm  decreased,  but  she  did 
not  relax  vigilance. 

'That  is  poetic,  but  vague.  Who  are  you,  and 
what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"My  biography,  in  short.  Briefly,  then,  I  am  a 
poet  out  of  a  job.  Second  stanza,  I  entered  your 
home  in  the  hope  of  finding  food.  Refrain,  I  am  a 
hungry,  hungry,  hungry  man." 

This,  she  thought,  was  obviously  insincere  and 
merited  rebuke. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      233 

**I  do  not  believe  you!" 

**Well,  perhaps  not/'  cheerfully.  "Neverthe- 
less I  am  hungry.  I  always  prefer  to  tell  the  truth, 
irrespective  of  people's  beliefs.  Allow  rne  to  turn 
on  the  light." 

"  Don't  move!  Stay  where  you  are."  She  waved 
the  pistol  at  him,  as  she  saw  his  hand  reach  to  the 
mantel. 

"I  don't  need  to  move.  The  globe  is  here.  Allow 
me."  He  turned  on  the  light.  In  its  soft  small  gleam 
they  regarded  each  other,  and  for  the  first  few  mo- 
ments had  nothing  to  say. 

Rosamond  saw  a  man  who  was  presumably  in  his 
"middle  thirties" — a  strong,  well-built  man,  with 
breadth  of  shoulder  and  depth  of  chest,  and  with 
face  and  hands  tanned  by  years  of  turning  them,  un- 
protected, toward  all  weathers.  He  had  no  beard 
or  moustache.  His  face  was  lean,  and  broad  at  the 
brow  and  chin;  his  eyes  large,  deep-set,  and  dark; 
and  his  mouth  wide-^with  firmness,  humour,  and 
sympathy  in  the  lines  about  it.  His  hat  was  a  large 
battered  felt,  of  weather-stained  hue,  trimmed  with 
a  long,  slender  feather,  dropped  on  the  fields  by  a 
pheasant  and  appropriated  by  this  tramp  who  had 
an  eye  for  ornamentation.  He  wore  in  his  belt  a 
spray  of  pine,  with  small  cones  forming  on  it.  His 
clothes  were  brown,  rough,  and  spattered  with  burrs. 
The  coat — a  loose  thing,  held  in  by  a  dark,  carved 


234      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

leather  belt,  must  have  had  half  a  dozen  deep  pockets 
in  it.  His  trouser-legs  were  rolled  up  and  it  was 
evident  that  his  thick  socks  and  his  boots  were  wet 
through.  His  black  hair  gleamed  about  his  forehead, 
suggesting  that  he  had  had  his  head,  as  well  as  his 
feet,  in  the  brooks  that  coursed  the  fields  to  spill  their 
crystal  into  the  river.  The  light  was  behind  him, 
and  she  could  not  see  whether  his  physiognomy  bore 
the  marks  of  a  life  of  crime,  as  his  raiment  bore  the 
marks  of  his  profession — a  gentleman  of  the  road. 
Though  his  speech  was  peculiar,  she  noticed,  grate- 
fully, that  it  was  clear.  While  the  double  pockets  on 
both  sides  of  his  coat  bulged,  their  irregular  con- 
vexity, she  saw,  was  not  due  to  bottles. 

In  the  matter  of  view,  he  had  the  advantage; 
for  the  globe  sent  its  rays  directly  upon  her, 
and  she  bloomed  out  of  the  shadows  like  some  leg- 
endary princess  arriving  from  the  Kingdom  of  No- 
where on  a  shaft  of  light,  wrapped  in  the  silver 
radiance  of  the  moon  and  the  petals  of  a  rose. 

"Why,  you  are  young!''  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low 
tone  of  such  charmed  wonder  as  a  wet  and  burr- 
bedecked  vagabond  might  naturally  feel  at  the  appa- 
rition of  a  fairy  princess.  "Only  a  girl.  From  your 
voice,  so  sweet  and  cold  and  prim,  I  judged  you  to  be 
as  old  as — as  my  heart." 

She  was  unprepared  for  this  mode  of  address  and 
did  not  know  how  to  answer  it;  but  she  kept  promi- 


"  Rosamond  saw  a  man  who  was  presumably  in  his  'middle 
thirties' —  a  strong,  well-built  man.  with  face  and  hands  tanned 
by  years  of  turning  them,  unprotected,  toward  all  weathers  ** 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      235 

nently  in  her  mind  the  rules  for  deaHng  with  bandits, 
as  she  had  gathered  them  from  her  reading,  namely, 
to  avoid  angering  them  unduly,  and  never  to  show 
fear.  She  waggled  the  pistol  at  him  and  said  with 
dignity : 

"You  see  I  am  not  afraid  of  you." 

She  saw  that  he  smiled. 

"Are  you  not?  H'm — I  am  afraid  of  you."  He 
looked  about  him  for  some  time  before  he  spoke 
again,  then  said,  "Since  I  have  answered  your 
questions  so  satisfactorily,  will  you  reciprocate  by 
telling  what  relation  you  are  to  this  house?" 

"I  own  it." 

He  stared  about  again  before  answering. 

"  Do  you  ?  Do  you  indeed  ?  That  is  very  pecuHar. 
Now,  if  you  had  said  you  owned  a  corner  in  heaven, 
or  a  bit  of  fairyland,  I  should  have  said :  *  Naturally. 
I  believe  you.'  But  when  *  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden' 
appears  by  magic  at  midnight,  in  the  midst  of — of — 
er — the  village  museum,  and  says  *I  own  it' — ^well, 
you  won't  think  me  impolite,  I  hope,  if  I  say  you  are 
mistaken?" 

"This  is  not  the  'village  museum ' !  It  is  my  home, 
and  I  own  it  all  myself."  She  spoke  heatedly,  be- 
cause the  museum  character  of  Villa  Rose  was  se- 
cretly a  sore  subject  with  her. 

"How  interesting.  Won't  you  be  seated?  No? 
As  you  please.     No  doubt  you  feel  safer  standing — 


236      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

with  three  doors  to  escape  by.  And  I  dare  say  if  I 
said  *booh!'  you'd  try  to  dash  through  all  three  of 
'em  at  once."  He  walked  about  slowly,  taking 
different  views  of  the  museum's  contents.  "Some 
very  good  things — and  some  .  .  .  not  "  he 
murmured. 

"You — you  must  understand  that  I — I  do  not 
wish  to  shoot  you  unless  it  is  quite  necessary,"  she 
stammered.  "But  if  it  is  necessary,  I — I  do  know 
how  to  shoot.  I — I  am  not  helpless."  She  drew 
herself  up  and  straightened  her  pistol  arm.  "I  have 
killed — rabbits!" 

"Have  you.f"'  He  chuckled.  "Call  me  Bunny, 
but,  oh,  do  not  shoot!"  At  that  moment  his  gaze 
fell  upon  the  landscape  hanging  over  the  desk. 
"Ah!"  he  cried,  "a  Turner— a  real  Turner!"  He 
strode  forward  to  get  a  better  look  at  it.  His 
movement  brought  him  close  to  Rosamond,  and, 
suspecting  attack,  she  thrust  her  weapon  at  him 
with  a  violent  gesture.  He  threw  his  hands  up  over 
his  head  but  continued  to  enjoy  the  picture. 

"A  beautiful  thing.  A  poem  in  colour.  Turner 
is  the  poet's  painter.  He  not  only  saw  Nature,  he 
listened  to  her  and  communed  with  her,  as  a  poet; 
then  he  translated  what  he  heard  through  colour. 
Can't  you  hear  the  scarlet  trumpets  blowing  across 
that  sunset?"  In  speaking  he  moved  back  and  side- 
wise,  trying  different  angles  of  vision,  still  dutifully 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      237 

keeping  his  hands  up.  Presently  he  turned  to  her. 
The  Hght  was  on  his  face  and  she  saw  how  warm 
and  merry  his  smile  was.  "That  is  the  only  real 
beauty  after  all — the  beauty  of  truth.  Dear  lady, 
I  am  sorry  I  alarm  you  so.  Just  see  how  thoroughly 
at  home  /  feel:" 

"I  am  not  alarmed,"  she  protested. 

"It  is  only  terror  that  is  evil  enough — or  mad 
enough — to  point  death  at  a  brother  human." 

He  put  his  hand  over  the  pistol,  looked  into  her 
face,  smiling  whimsically,  then  coolly  took  the  pistol 
from  her  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 

"You — you  are  the  strangest  tramp  I  ever  saw," 
she  gasped. 

" Tramp .f*  Oh!  Am  I.^  Then  look  well  at  me — 
that  noble  and  pathetic  figure,  the  tramp!  Madam, 
the  rich  world  you  live  in  occasionally  produces  a 
man  like  me,  but  it  soon  casts  him  out!"  He  sighed 
heavily. 

Like  most  persons  who  have  been  lifted  above  their 
original  station  in  life,  Mrs.  Mearely  thought  others 
should  keep  to  theirs.  So  she  said,  with  a  degree 
of  pride: 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  world  I  live  in.?" 

"  Lady,"  he  whined, "  FlI  tell  you  my  secret.  Once 
I,  too,  was  respectable;  but  I  have  lived  it  down." 
He  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  an  old  mahogany  chair, 
as  casually  as  if  it  were  a  stump  by  the  woodside, 


238      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

and  picked  burrs  from  his  stockings.  Evidently 
they  had  pricked  him  as  his  ankles  swung  together. 

"Why  did  you  leave  my  world — if,  indeed,  you 
were  ever  in  it  ? " 

"My  biography,  revised  edition.  I  left  your  world 
because  I  had  no  affinity  with  it.  I  was  born  to  be  a 
poet.  I  found,  however,  that  society  felt  no  need 
of  me  and  my  verses.  Society  does  not  need  poets. 
Society's  great  need  is  chauffeurs!  And  I  could 
never  stomach  the  smell  of  gasolene." 

"But,  even  so,  need  you  have  become  a  tramp— 
an  outcast?  A — a  vagabond  who  enters  houses  at 
night  for  food.?  Frightening  people!"  Her  indig- 
nation rose.     "Why  don't  you  work?'' 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  pointing  at  her  with  the 
burr  he  had  just  caught  between  forefinger  and 
thumb. 

"Madam,  do  you  work?  Is  this  house — that 
gown — a  charming  gown,  too — the  result  of  your 
labour?" 

"No,"  she  admitted;  and,  after  a  brief  pause, 
answering  the  unworded  question  she  felt  those  keen 
eyes  were  asking,  she  added:  "I  married  for  this 
house  and  this  gown." 

"Ah!  then  you,  too,  do  cowardly  things.  You 
dared  not  face  life  without  wealth,  so  you  sold 
yourself  at  so  much  per  inch  of  beauty.  Dear  lady, 
you  are  a  parasite — and  selfish,  withal!     What  right 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      239 

have  you,  who  married  for  food,  to  blame  me  for 
taking  food  without  the  preHminary  of  a  church 
ceremony?" 

Rosamond's  tone  was  plaintive  and  offended. 

"  You  say  very  unpleasant  things.  You  make  very 
severe  criticisms.  You  have  no  right  to  enter  my 
house  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  criticise.'' 

He  made  a  gesture  of  alarm,  and  laughed. 

"No,  no!  Heaven  forbid!  I  make  no  more 
criticisms.  I've  suffered  too  much  from  my  critical 
tongue.  Do  you  know  there  are  places  where  they 
put  critics  in  prison.?" 

**You  said  you  came  for  food.     Did  you  find  it.?" 

"Not  yet,"  hopefully.  "Occasionally,  in  my 
wanderings,  I  have  lived  on  the  back  porches  of  the 
charitable  in  the  great  cities.  Also  I  have  dined 
with  princes — at  great  cost!"  He  smothered  a 
laugh. 

There  was  a  silence;  then  she  asked,  a  little  wist- 
fully: 

"Who  are  you.?" 

He  leaned  forward,  smiling,  frankly  charmed  by 
her. 

"I've  told  you.  I  am  a  bird  of  passage  and  I  skim 
over  the  cities,  on  my  way  to  places  where  no  cities 
are.  In  passing,  I  stopped  but  an  instant  to  sup 
with  you.  Only  an  instant,  for  summer  is  fleeing, 
and  I  must  away  with  her." 


240      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"And  whither  are  you  and  summer  going?" 

"With  summer  I  turn  my  back  on  the  crowded 
marts  of  men.  In  the  heart  of  a  forest  is  a  hut,  built 
over  a  stream  that  laughs  and  sings  to  me  through 
storm  and  sun.  And  there  I  live  till  the  snows  drive 
me  to  the  place  of  humans  again.  There  I  write 
and  dream — and  dream  and  write — with  none  to 
say  me  nay.  Some  day  I  shall  buy  that  hut — so 
that  others  may  share  my  knowledge  that  it  is 
mine." 

"And  never  have  anything  more  than  that.?" 
thoughtfully. 

"What  more  does  a  man  need.?  See  how  your 
world — ^with  its  gowns  and  houses  you  married  for 
— has  deluded  you.  You  have  never  found  out  that 
it  is  not  things  vfhich  make  one's  life  rich  and  radiant." 

She  heard  the  tone  of  sympathy  for  which,  it 
seemed  to  her,  she  had  waited  a  very  long  lifetime, 
and  her  answer  came  with  a  little  outburst  of  feel- 
ing. 

"I  have  found  it  out.  My  life  is  one  long  boredom. 
In  that  respect  it  is  not  so  different  from  the  other 
lives  I  see  lived  around  me." 

"Only  other  people  deceive  themselves  more  suc- 
cessfully.?" 

"Yes.  How  you  understand  !''  She  smiled,  and 
made  a  movement  of  confidence  toward  him.  "Is 
it  true  that  you  are  hungry.?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      241 

''Very  true."  He  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  smil- 
ing down  into  her  upturned  face.  "Are  you  about 
to  offer  the  vagabond  a  few  crumbs  from  the  rich 
man's  table.?" 

"The  rich  man  is  gone.  But  his  goods  remain; 
and  I  can  offer  you  the  food  that  is  necessary  even 
to  a  dreamer.  Sit  down.  I  will  get  it  for  you." 
She  went  to  the  tall  lamp  behind  the  card  table 
and  turned  it  on. 

"The  Lord  bless  ye,  kind  leddy.  It's  a  good  deed 
ye  are  doin'  this  day." 

She  laughed. 

"It's  a  fair  exchange.  You  give  me  a  new  ex- 
perience.    I  give  you  food." 

"A  rare  experience  to  me,  if  not  exactly  a  new 
one,"  he  retorted  cheerily.  "It  will  be  very 
wonderful  to  be  waited  on  by  you — to  eat  your  supper 
— surrounded  by  these — er — beautiful  and  priceless 
— that  is  to  say,  high-priced — ohjets  d'art/' 

In  following  her  toward  the  dining-room  door,  he 
passed  the  bookcase  with  its  central  ornament,  the 
jade-and-gold  Buddha. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  exclaimed.  " Here  tV  something!" 
Catching  it  up  he  ran  toward  the  nearest  light  with  it, 
and  thereby  re-awakened  Rosamond's  fears.  She 
flew  for  her  weapon.  He  put  the  Buddha  back  in  its 
place  and  came  to  her. 

"And  still  you  fear  and  doubt,"  he  chided.     "Well, 


242      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

take  your  little  gun,  since  you  believe  that  your 
goods  are  safe  only  when  you  have  death  in  your 
hand." 

"I  can't  help  it!"  She  looked  at  him,  ashamed, 
pathetic,  defiant. 

"Too  bad — too  bad."     His  eyes  twinkled. 

The  colour  flamed  to  her  brow.  Her  eyes  wavered 
from  his.  With  a  sudden,  reckless  motion,  she  tossed 
the  little  weapon  on  the  table  toward  him. 

"There!     And  I  don't  know  who  you  are!" 

Smiling,  with  open  dehght  in  her,  he  reached  for 
the  pistol,  drew  the  charges,  and  dropped  them  into 
a  vase  on  the  bookcase. 

"Much  safer  on  the  whole;  don't  you  think  so, 
child  ?  " 

"Oh!"  she  cried  passionately.  "You  make  me 
feel  like — like — so  foolish!"  Avoiding  his  merry 
eyes,  she  dashed  into  the  dining  room. 

"It's  extraordinary,"  he  muttered,  moving  about 
the  room.  "It  should  be  the  house.  But,  of  course, 
it  can't  be.  And  where  did  she  come  from — the 
little  lady  curator  of  the  museum.?" 

He  was  hampered  in  his  investigations  by  his 
hostess.  She  was  in  and  out  with  table-cloth,  nap- 
kins, trays  of  bread  and  butter,  sandwiches,  salad, 
and  whatever  she  felt  would  appease  a  hungry, 
though  refined,  tramp's  appetite.  At  one  turn  in 
his  peregrinations  about  the  apartment  he  arrived 


''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!''      243 

at  the  flower-stand  behind  the  settee,  and  saw  the 
small  volume  lying  there. 

"What,  Browning?"  he  exclaimed.  "Does  she 
read  him?  or  does  he  only  ornament  her  tal)le?" 
He  opened  it  at  the  flyleaf.  "*From  Rosamond 
Mearely  to  herself.'  How  delicious!"  He  explored 
further,  unaware  that  the  owner  of  the  book  was 
watching  him  and  straining  her  ears  to  hear  his  self- 
communings.     "Yes,  she  reads  him,  and  marks  her 

favourite  passages  like  a  girl  in  her  teens .  What's 

this?" 

There  is  no  good  of  life  but  love — but  love. 
Never  you  cheat  yourself  one  instant!     Love, 
Give  love,  ask  only  love,  and  leave  the  rest. 

"Ah  ha!  'Never  you  cheat  yourself.'  With 
her  little  pencil  she  underscores  the  line,  and  so 
confesses  to  any  one  who  opens  the  book  that  she 
cheated  herself  when  she  married  Mr.  Money-Bags 
Mearely."  He  looked  for  more  self-revelations, 
and  found  the  passage  she  had  said  aloud  to  herself, 
there,  just  before  the  one  bell-note  had  rolled  through 
the  valley. 

There  have  been  moments  if  the  Sentinel, 

Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 

Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 

I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul. 


244      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Who  could  have  comprehended? 
Why  no  one — but  this  one  who  did. 
even  now  perhaps  it  comes  too  late. 

"Oh,  Rosamond  Mearely!  Oh,  merely  Rosa- 
mond!    *  Who  could  have  comprehended.?'" 

He  laid  the  book  down,  saying  her  name  softly  to 
himself. 

"It — it's  all  ready,''  she  called,  timidly,  hoping 
that  her  blush  would  not  be  noticed.  She  did  not 
wish  even  so  charming  a  vagabond  as  this  midnight 
visitor  to  see  how  his  reading  of  her  favourite  pass- 
ages had  stirred  her.  In  her  own  heart,  she  always 
held  that  it  was  the  queen  of  Villa  Rose  and  not  the 
queen  of  Browning's  "In  a  Balcony,"  who  had  first 
uttered  those  lines. 

"The  vagabond  thanks  Mrs.  Mearely  profoundly 
for  her  kindness.  You  see  I  have  discovered  your 
name  among  the  treasures  of  this  room."  He  helped 
her  take  the  dishes  off  the  tray  and  arrange  them  on 
the  table. 

"Mrs.  Mearely  accepts  no  thanks  for  pleasing 
herself,"  she  replied,  colouring  again  and  refusing 
to  let  her  eyes  meet  his,  lest  he  should  look  through 
them  into  her  mind  and  find  confirmation  of  what 
the  pencil  marks  in  the  book  had  told  him.  She 
pointed  to  a  chair.     "Eat,  Vagabond!" 

"Will  you  not  share  the  beggar's  crust?"  whimsi- 
cally. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      245 

"It  does  make  me  feel  hungry." 

"Good!  Sit,  then,  and  Til  serve  you:  for,  mind 
you,  you  are  only  a  guest  at  this  wayside  meal.  I 
see  just  one  slice  of  bread  and  butter  I  think  I  can 
spare." 

"Oh,  stingy!"  she  cried.  A  happy  little  laugh 
bubbled  from  her  as  she  slipped  into  a  chair  at  his 
side.  He  helped  her;  then,  proving  his  earlier  asser- 
tions, fell  to  with  a  will. 

"Not  stingy,"  he  mumbled,  through  bread  and 
butter.  "But  you  have  already  eaten  three  big, 
fat  meals  to-day." 

"I  haven't!"  she  protested.  This  was  a  most 
unfair  charge.     He  went  on: 

"Eating  now  is  a  mere — a  Mearely — ^woman's 
whim  with  you.  You  want  this  supper  just  because 
it  is  mine!"     He  attacked  the  salad,  hungrily. 

"  Well !  /  gave  it  to  you,  didn't  I  ? "  she  demanded 
indignantly. 

"And  now,  womanlike,  you  want  to  take  it  back. 
Never! — while  I  have  teeth!" — biting  into  the  sand- 
wich he  had  been  waving  to  emphasize  his  remarks. 
"Don't  plume  yourself  on  your  charity,  either,  dear 
young  Baroness  of  Castle  de  Junk " 

"Oh!"  she  scolded. 

"Because  you  know  you  had  to  give  me  something 
to  keep  me  from  robbing  the  museum." 

"It's  not   a  museum!"     She   stamped   her  foot. 


246      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

He   laughed.     They   supped   in   silence   for  several 


minutes. 


You  know,"  he  said,  as  he  held  his  cup  for  coffee, 
"after  all,  there  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  food. 
Nothing  else  gives  one  quite  the  same  feeling  of 
completeness."  She  nodded.  "By  the  way,  you 
can  probably  tell  me  if  this  is  the  only  little  hillside 
town  like  this  in  the  neighbourhood  with  houses  like 
this.  Even  a  tramp  sometimes  Hkes  to  know  where 
he  is — on  a  dark  night." 

"There  are  the  two  towns,  Roseborough  and 
Poplars  Vale.  Roseborough  is  the  older.  Poplars 
Vale  used  to  be  just  a  farm  and  a  corner  store.  Now, 
you  see,  it  is  quite  a  place.     Almost  like  Roseborough." 

"Well,  well;  that  accounts  for  it!  Poplars  Vale, 
eh?"  he  muttered.  "And  I  thought  it  was  Rose- 
borough." Busy  with  the  coffee-pot  she  did  not 
hear  him.  He  leaned  toward  her.  "Are  the  two 
towns  comfortably  close  to  each  other?" 

"What?     Oh,  yes.     An  hour's  ride." 

"Only  an  hour's  separation?  What  a  charming 
arrangement,"  surveying  her  with  pleasure  as  she 
dropped  two  lumps  into  his  cup.  "What  a  queer 
sugar-bowl?"  he  lifted  it.     "Sterling?" 

"Oh — no — o.     I  suppose  not." 

He  laughed. 

"Shame  on  you  for  a  fibster!  you  are  still  a  wee 
mite  afraid  I  may  put  it  in  my  pocket.     And  what 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      247 

would  I  do  with  a  monstrous  thmg  like  that — 
all  top-heavy  with  a  row  of  little  deformed  cupids. 
Tis  cumbersome  and  unsightly — and  quite  useless. 
It  reminds  me  of  a  royal  tea-service  Fve  seen — than 
which  nothing  could  be  uglier.  A  white  china  bowl 
would  be  prettier — and  cleaner."  He  set  it  down. 
"If  I  took  it  I  would  not  do  so  ill  as  the  thief,  Ambi- 
tion, who  came  into  your  house  of  life  before  me, 
and  robbed  you  of  your  faith  and  the  ability  to  be 
glad.  Believe  me,  faith — ^joyous  faith — is  worth 
more  than  many  silver  bowls — and  deformed  little 
cupids,"  he  smiled. 

"True,  perhaps,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  Sud- 
denly she  was  stirred  to  resentment  at  life  and  at  him 
also;  for  his  joyous,  impudent  freedom  seemed  to 
make  her  feel  her  caged  condition  more  'than  ever 
before.  She  pushed  her  plate  away,  and  rose. 
"And  yet — do  you  suppose  I  could  have  been  robbed 
of  it  if  Fd  ever  possessed  a  glad  faith  ?  It  is  not  for 
you  t9  criticise  me,  is  it  \ "  She  spoke  with  a  trace  of 
haughtiness.  "  Let  us  think  no  more  of  serious  things. 
Eating,  drinking,  comfort,  and  ease — there's  my 
definition  of  life.  Vagabond.  And  it  seems  to  agree 
with  yours."  She  pointed  to  his  plate.  He  turned 
on  her  suddenly. 

"Why  do  you  lie  to  me  and  to  yourself?" 

The  severity  in  his  tone  startled  her. 

"Oh!" 


248      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

He  went  on,  more  gently,  but  not  inclined  to  spare 
her  a  wholesome  truth  or  two. 

"How  can  you  face  life  if  you  are  insincere?  And 
that  pitiful  little  air  of  authority — because,  forsooth, 
you  still  have  the  money  you  married  for!  Fie,  for 
shame!  That  is  not  your  definition  of  life.  Did  I 
not  tell  you  that  I  am  a  poet.?  Do  you  think  a  poet 
means  only  a  writer  of  rhymes.?  The  poet  is  one 
who  sees  God  walking  wherever  there  is  a  foothold 
of  earth !  What  is  your  poor  little  mask  to  me .?  It 
is  shaped  like  a  dollar-sign  and  I  can  see  your  eyes — 
and  nose — through  it.  Yes,  and  more:  your  heart. 
And  I  tell  you  that  your  place  is  not  here.  Every 
hour  that  you  lurk  here  in  the  shadows,  you  cheat 
yourself  of  life." 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things  to  me.?"  She  was 
perturbed  to  the  point  of  resistance.  "You — a 
vagabond — and  outcast!     This  is  my  life." 

"Why  do  you  throw  vagabond  in  my  teeth,  eh.?" 

"From  scorn!" 

"From  envy.  You  envy  me  because  I  have  dared 
to  be  a  vagabond.  I  had  my  choice  once — as  you 
had  yours.  I  could  have  forsworn  my  liberty  and 
my  poetry  and — written  the  usual  magazine  trash. 
Oh,  yes,  I  had  an  *  opening,'  as  they  call  it,  into  the 
world  of  spurious  literature.  But,  oh,  how  quickly 
I  shut  up  that  opening!  I  could  also  have  taught 
nice  young  lads  to  say  S'il  vous  plait,  madame — or 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      249 

La  donna  e  mobile — and  Nein,  das  will  Ich  nicht 
machen !  Not  me.  I  have  been  ridiculed,  con- 
demned. I  have  known  poverty  and  hunger — and 
despair.  But  let  me  tell  you,  when  men  cast  me 
out,  God  received  me.  Earth  took  me  to  her  infinite 
embrace.  She  has  fed  me  even  in  her  deserts.  She 
has  sheltered  me  among  her  hills.  She  has  made 
me  little  brother  to  her  rains  and  her  winds.  And  my 
despair — do  you  know  what  she  has  done  to  that? 
She  has  taught  me  to  make  songs  of  it!  And  you — 
poor  coward — how  you  envy  me!" 

"Stop,"  she  commanded,  hotly.  "How  dare  you 
compare  me  with     .     .     ." 

"With  a  vagabond.''  Because  you  are  like  me. 
Yes,  you  are!  You  hate  the  shams  as  I  do.  You 
long  for  a  real  life,  for  a  true  love — ^just  the  emotions 
and  passions  of  common  earth." 

"Be  silent." 

He  pursued  his  advantage  relentlessly. 

"Underneath  that  air  of  Madam  Rich-and- 
Haughty,  you  are  as  romantic  as  a  schoolgirl,  you 
who  think  you  are  cold  and  shallow!  You,  who 
.  .  .  Are  you  crying  .f*"  She  had  dropped  into 
her  nook  of  the  settee,  with  her  face  hidden  on  her 
arm.     He  went  to  her. 

"I — I — oh,  you  are  very  cruel." 

"Yes.  It  is  torture,  to  really  see  oneself."  She 
resisted  this,  feebly. 


250      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Oh,  no — Vm  not  like  that.  Why  should  you 
think     .     .     .      ?" 

"Because  I  have  read  your  heart  in  a  book."  He 
lifted  the  volume.  "How  you  are  longing  for  love — 
for  a  common,  warm,  human  love.  If  some  man, 
no  matter  who  or  what  he  was,  came  to  you — if  even 
a  vagabond  were  to  forget  'the  queen'  and  throw 
himself  boldly  at  your  feet — you  would  *  stoop  and 
kiss  him  with  your  soul.'" 

She  turned  her  face  up  to  him,  then  hid  her  eyes 
again  from  the  look  in  his — a  look,  searching  and 
tender,  that  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a  caress,  and 
to  deny  the  trivialities  of  station  and  degree  and  the 
opulent  solidity  of  the  Mearely  house.  It  spoke  from 
the  life  in  him  to  the  life  in  her,  with  promise.  He 
leaned  over,  near  her,  but  not  touching  her.  "Who 
could  have  comprehended  V  he  whispered,  wondering 
at  his  own  emotion  for  her,  but  accepting  it  with  the 
same  faith  and  reverence  with  which  he  accepted 
sunrise,  the  falling  of  a  star,  or  the  fragrance  of  the 
beneficent  pines. 

She  looked  up  again  and  no  longer  hid  the  need 
she  felt. 

"Oh,  don't — don't  just  trifle  with  me!  You  are 
the  only  man  who  has  ever  understood :  the  only  man 
who  has  ever  .  .  ."  She  could  not  go  on,  but 
her  eyes  and  quivering  mouth  mutely  besought  him 
to  say  what  she  longed  to  hear. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      251 

"Who  has  ever  loved  you?" 

The  tears  filled  her  eyes  again. 

"Since  you're  only  a — a  vagabond,  and  I  don't 
know  you — and  you  will  go  away  like — like  a  make- 
believe  prince — it  couldn't  be  very  wrong  for  you 
to  say  you  love  me — ^just  once?  I'll  never  have 
anything  real,  so  can't  we  just  pretend?" 

"Just  pretend — you  think?  No.  It  couldn't  be 
very  wrong  for  you  to  hear  me  say  just  once  that  I 
love  you.  Only  don't  repent  to-morrow  that  you 
heard  love  to-night  from  the  lips  of  a  vagabond." 

"Love  will  never  come  again,"  sadly. 

"I  tell  you  it  will.  The  very  same  love  will  come 
— not  as  a  vagabond  in  the  night,  but  a  love  that  you 
can  accept." 

"Will  it  really  come  again?"  wistfully. 

"Yes.     Now — good-night  and  good-bye." 

"Good-bye?"  blankly.  "You  are  going  now? 
Oh— where?" 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  smoothed  its  pheasant's 
feather,  while  he  smiled  at  her  and  said,  mysteri- 
ously: 

"Who  knows?  On  through  the  woods,  over  the 
hills.  Autumn  is  coming,  and  the  vagabond  takes 
the  road  again." 

She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hand  in  his.  So, 
hand  in  hand,  they  walked  toward  the  verandah. 

"I  shall  never  forget  you." 


252      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

**That  is  good,"  he  said.  He  stopped  her  as  she 
was  stepping  out  on  the  verandah.  "Wait.  Go 
back.  There  is  too  much  Hght  behind  you.  Who 
knows  what  curious  eyes  may  lurk  in  the  darkness 
below.?"  He  leaped  back  nimbly  and  turned  off  the 
light  from  the  tall  lamp.  Pointing  to  the  valley 
and  the  river  flooded  with  moonlight,  he  said,  "See 
how  my  golden  path  winds  before  me.  Now,  I 
leave  you."  With  another  nimble  movement  he 
had  climbed  to  the  railing. 

"Oh — not  that  way,"  she  urged. 

"It's  a  quick  way.  A  leap,  and  I  am  in  the  road 
below.  Farewell,  Rosamond  Mearely.  Till  love 
comes  again,  my  merely  Rosamond,  say  good-night, 
and  wish  me  well." 

"Good-night!     I — I  do  not  know  your  name!" 

"A  vagabond  has  no  name."  he  answered.  He 
bent  and  swiftly  kissed  the  hand  still  trying  to  hold 
him,  unclasped  its  fingers,  and  jumped  to  the  road. 

"Good-bye,  forever  and  ever,  my  vagabond." 
Rosamond  tried  to  call  the  words  to  him,  but  a  sob 
stopped  them. 

"Here!"  "There!"  "Get  him!"  Two  rough 
voices  shouted  from  below,  and  there  was  the  noise  of 
tramping  feet. 

"Nay,  nay!  Good-night  to  you!"  the  vagabond 
called;  his  voice  sounded  as  if  he  were  running. 

"Hey!  he's  oflF!"     One  of  the  rough  voices  roared. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      253 

"Halt!"  A  shot  snapped  through  the  air,  followed 
quickly  by  another. 

Rosamond  stood  motionless,  stupefied  by  terror. 

"I  winged  him,"  she  heard  the  same  voice  say. 
Then  she  threw  off  the  spell  in  which  fear  had  gripped 
her  and  rushed  out  into  the  garden  and  down  the 
drive,  calling  wildly.  Guns  were  as  little  known 
in  Roseborough  as  tramps.  She  had  no  idea  what 
she  should  find  in  the  road,  or  who  the  men  were  who 
had  shot  at  her  vagabond  and  perhaps  killed  him. 
No  thought  of  danger  to  herself  crossed  her  mind. 
She  dashed  on  recklessly,  crying: 

"Vagabond!     My  vagabond!     Answer  me!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  first  sound  she  heard  was  a  horse's  trotting 
as  some  one  rode  away  down  the  hill.  There 
was  a  jumble  of  interjections,  groans,  and  arguments, 
amid  which  she  distinguished  her  vagabond's  voice. 
He  was  at  least  not  slain!  She  sent  up  a  swift 
prayer  of  grateful  joy,  and  called  him  again.  He 
replied  with  a  guarded  question. 

"Who's  calling?" 

"I— I,"  she  answered.     "What  is  it.?" 

"An  accident.     Nobody  hurt." 

Following  the  direction  of  his  voice,  she  came  upon 
"him  seated  on  a  stone,  with  another  man  standing 
beside  him.     He  addressed  her  formally. 

"Madam,  do  not  be  alarmed.  There  has  been  an 
accident.  This  gentleman  is  a  constable.  He  was — 
er — under  the  impression  that  he  ought  to  shoot  me, 
and  did  so  without  waiting  for  explanations." 

"Oh,  dear— oh     .     .     ." 

He  interrupted  again,  as  quickly  as  he  could  get  his 
breath. 

"I  presume  the  shots  wakened  you,  or,  if  you  were 
not  asleep,  alarmed  you.  It  was  most  charitable  of 
you  to  run  to  the  assistance  of  the  wounded." 

254 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      255 

"Wounded!" 

"Slightly.  One  favour  only — let  me  ask.  May 
we  come  in  for  a  moment  and  find  out  the  extent  of 
the  damage  .f*  I  am  sure  the  officer  will  assist  in 
binding  up  the  wounds  he  has  made.  We  will 
trouble  you  for  only  a  few  moments." 

She  understood  that  she  was  to  moderate  her 
anxiety.  Her  vagabond  did  not  mean  to  let  their 
former  acquaintance  be  known  to  the  village  sleuth 
who  might  gossip  it  about  the  valley. 

"Can  the  constable  carry  you  in.^" 

"iVo,  ma'am!  nor  hi  wouldn't  try  it!"  came  out  of 
the  night,  with  indignant  emphasis  and  a  cockney 
accent  as  thick  as  the  darkness. 

"No  need,  officer.  It's  my  shoulder  that  is  hit. 
If  I  may  come  in     .     .     ." 

"Hi  might  as  well  tell  yer  that,  w'erever  you  go, 
Hi  goes  with  yer,  as  Ruth  she  says  to  Nay-homy  in 
the  Scriptur';  cos  w'y?  Cos  you're  hunder  arrest, 
that's  w'y." 

"Thank  you  for  the  explanation.  I  might  have 
thought  you  were  following  me  from  sheer  affection." 

"Oh,  don't  jest!"  Rosamond  pleaded.  "It  may 
be  dreadfully  serious.  I  will  run  in  ahead  and  find 
some  linen  to  make  bandages — and  telephone  for  the 
doctor."  She  ran  up  the  road  toward  her  gate,  not 
heeding  his  protests  against  the  doctor. 

Dr.  Wells's  office-  and  horse-boy,  Peter,  answered 


256      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

the  telephone  almost  immediately.  He  slept  in  the 
office  downstairs  for  that  purpose.  Dr.  Wells  was 
wont  to  say  that  while  Peter  never  woke  up,  when  the 
bell  rang,  he  always  got  up  and  took  the  name  fairly 
correctly,  stumbled  to  his  master's  door  and  repeated 
it,  and  then,  after  harnessing  the  horse,  rolled  back 
to  bed  without  knowing  that  he  had  been  up.  When 
vagabond  and  constable  entered  Villa  Rose,  Peter 
was  even  then  rapping  on  the  doctor's  chamber  door 
and  saying  the  name  of  "Mearely." 

Rosamond  scurried  hither  and  thither  producing 
soft  Hnen  and  lotions,  safety  pins  and  needle  and 
thread,  cotton  batting  and  smelHng  salts,  until  the 
end  of  the  big  table  looked  like  a  peep  into  a  hospital. 
To  all  protests  she  answered : 

"Don't  talk!     Don't  talk!     Save  your  strength." 

The  ball  had  furrowed  the  fleshy  part  of  his  left 
arm  just  below  the  shoulder.  Rosamond  was  obliged 
to  remove  his  coat,  cut  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt,  and 
bathe  and  dress  the  wound  herself  without  assistance 
from  the  constable.  That  worthy  stood  by,  twirling 
a  battered  straw  hat  and  staring  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed  at  the  contents  of  the  Hving  room.  He  re- 
fused point  blank  to  take  any  surgical  responsibility. 

"Hi'm  a  constable,  and  Hi  ain't  no  bloomin' 
doctor.  Hi  drills  'oles  in  yer;  Hi  don't  stop  'em 
hup  again,"  was  his  pithy  and  definite  retort,  when 
besought  to  put  the  pins  in  the  bandage  while  Mrs. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      257 

Mearely  held  it  secure.  In  the  end  she  was  obHged 
to  tie  it,  achieving  quite  a  pretty  bow-knot  which  she 
spread  out  daintily  and  patted  into  place,  feeling  a 
natural  pride  in  it  which  she  was  not  inclined  to 
conceal. 

While  refusing  to  put  a  finger  to  the  business, 
himself,  the  constable  was  willing  to  make  remarks 
and  to  offer  criticisms,  such  as : 

"HiVe  'eard  of  gangrene  a-settin'  in  hafter  a  shot. 
Hi  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  'e'd  take  to  gangrene, 
'im  bein'  of  that  dark,  bilious  complexion.  A  dark- 
skinned  man  is  bound  to  be  a  bilious  man.  Hi 
never  knowed  it  to  fail." 

Or: 

"If  Hi'd  ben  doin'  the  job,  Hi'd  'ave  done  it  very 
different.  But  hit's  not  my  place  to  nuss.  Wot's 
your  name  (*nyme'  he  called  it),  by  the  w'y?" 

"Mrs.  Mearely."  shortly.  She  already  detested 
that  constable. 

He  was  a  broad,  slow  person  of  forty  or  more, 
with  a  dragging  walk  that,  at  first  sight,  seemed  to  be 
lameness;  but  save  for  self-importance  and  a  weary 
disgust  at  the  world,  his  limbs  were  whole.  His 
head  was  as  large  as  the  average  headstone,  and  of 
somewhat  the  same  shape;  and  though  it  was  not  of 
the  same  material,  it  was  thicker  and  looked  as  hard. 
He  wore  a  gray  linen  duster,  soiled  and  much  crum- 
pled, from  which  he  occasionally  filliped  bits  of  dried 


258      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

mud  with  his  thumb  nail.  He  spoke  in  the  dehberate, 
very  positive  accents  of  a  man  who  knows  he  has 
never  made  a  mistake  of  any  kind,  even  by  accident, 
in  all  his  life.  He  forbore  to  argue  with  Mrs.  Mearely 
when  she  accused  him  of  a  callous  soul,  anent  the 
bandaging.  He  simply  put  back  the  flap  of  his 
duster  and  polished  his  badge  with  his  ciifF.  The 
inference  was  plain.  She  might  have  riches;  but  he 
zvas  the  Law. 

**  Why  doesn't  Dr.  Wells  come .?  I  am  so  frightened 
about  you!"  She  burst  out  presently,  after  the  Law 
had  expressed  more  of  his  uncomforting  views. 

"But  it's  nothing,"  the  victim  protested. 

"Oh,  yes  it  is — it  is  I  It's  a  dreadful  wound. 
It— it  bled!" 

"  It's  only  a  graze  on  the  shoulder.  You  have  done 
everything  needful." 

"Oh,  no — I  don't  know  how  to  attend  to  it 
properly.  If  only  the  doctor  would  come!  Don't 
they  c-cauterize — ^wounds?"  She  stammered  over 
the  word,  as  she  was  not  sure  of  it.  "I — I — think 
I've  read  of  that.  And  sew  them  up  with  silk? — 
to — to  prevent  people  from  bleeding  to  death?" 

Her  eyes  were  big  and  tearful  with  alarm. 

"Please  don't  be  so  troubled.  It  is  only  a  trifle. 
You  need  not  have  sent  for  the  doctor  at  all."  He 
turned  his  head  to  hide  the  flicker  of  amusement 
which  he  could  not  restrain. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      259 

"Oh,  don't  talk!"  she  urged.  "You  haven't  the 
strength  to  waste.  Ought  I  to  telephone  again? 
Oh,  dear!  Dr.  Wells's  boy  is  so  stupid.  Perhaps  he 
hasn't  told  the  doctor  the  right  name — sent  him  off 
somewhere  else.  And — and — you'll  bleed  to  death 
before  he — he — comes  to  sew  you  up  with  silk." 
She  wept. 

"No — no,  dear  lady.  Don't  be  distressed.  I'm 
all  right." 

"Aw!  'E'll  do,  I  guess.  Nuthin'  more'n  a  scratch; 
but  wot  a  goin'-on  habout  it!"  The  constable  was 
disgusted. 

Rosamond  turned  on  him,  angrily. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  It  is  all  your  fault! 
You  might  have  killed  him!" 

This  had  far  from  the  desired  effect. 

The  constable  replied  proudly,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  for  admiration: 

"Hif  it  was  my  juty  Hi'd  'ave  'ad  ter  kill  'im." 
He  put  the  straw  hat  on  his  head  with  an  air. 

"Duty!  How  dare  you  shoot  a  man  just  because 
you  see  him  alone  on  the  road  at  night!" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  But,  you  see,  ma'am,  constable 
Gardner  and  me,  we  was  sent  out  to-night  to  look 
for  a  tramp.  That's  hon  account  of  some  busybody 
thinkin'  they  seen  'im  'ereabouts  this  very  hevenin'. 
So  they  tells  the  chief,  and  'e  sends  us,  me  an' 
Gardner, — my  nyme  bein'  Marks,  Halfred  Marks, 


26o      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Halfred  Marks"  (he  touched  his  hat-brim  to  each 
in  turn).  "An'  so  we  comes  beatin'  hit  along  hup  the 
valley.     An*  w'en  Hi  seen  'im  on  the  porch     .     .     ." 

Rosamond  made  an  exclamation  of  alarm. 

"You — you  saw     .     .     .      ?" 

"Be  careful,"  her  patient  whispered. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  seen  'im  standin'  on  the  railin'  as 
I  come  up  the  road.  And,  considerin'  the  time  o' 
night,  hit  looked  queer — to  me.''  His  expression 
defied  them  to  criticise  his  angle  of  vision. 

"Why— why  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Mearely  began,  feel- 
ing for  words  that  eluded  her.  The  vagabond  came 
to  her  aid. 

"Naturally — naturally — sergeant     .     .     ." 

The  Law's  regard  became  more  affable 

"Hi  hain't  the  sergeant,  sir — thankin'  you  kindly 
jest  the  same.  Seein'  a  man  on  the  railin'  at  that 
time  o'  night     .     .     ." 

She  interrupted,  nervously: 

"It  couldn't  have  been  so  very  late     ..." 

"Sh!"  came  the  warning  from  behind  her. 

Slowly  and  laboriously,  Mr.  Marks  took  from  his 
pocket  a  large,  open-faced  silver  watch,  attached 
to  a  short  loop  and  bow  of  bright,  cherry-coloured 
ribbon. 

"Three-twelve;  nigh  on  three-fifteen,"  he  said, 
after  a  prolonged  examination. 

"But  it  was  not  three,  then  /" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      261 

"Hi  didn't  say  three,  ma'am.  Hi  said  three- 
twelve.  Three-thirteen  it  is  now,  bein'  as  time  an' 
tide  waits  for  no  man.  Must  a'ben  two-thirty, 
any'ow — nearer  two  forty-five."  Preparing  to  re- 
turn the  watch  to  his  pocket,  he  noticed  the  other 
man  gazing  at  its  cherry  bow.  "Hi  see  you're  had- 
mirin'  of  this.  It's  one  of  Mrs.  Marks's  'appy 
touches.  She  'as  a  good  bit  of  sentiment,  Mrs. 
Marks  'as — on  haccount  of  marryin'  late  in  Hfe. 
Hi  recommends  Mrs.  Marks  as  a  wife;  or  hany 
spinster  that's  standin',  so  to  speak,  hon  the  doorsill 
of  the  lonesome  forties,  for,  w'en  they  gets  took  up 
by  a  man,  they're  very  grateful  an'  supine.  So  as 
Hi  was  sayin',  seein'  'im  on  the  railin'  at  that  time 
of  night,  Hi  thought  Hi'd  see  wot  was  hup!" 

"Naturally,  officer:  of  course." 

"So  Hi  starts  hup  the  bank  with  Gardner;  an' 
jest  then — bump! — the  feller  jumps  an'  lands  on  my 
'ead,  and  we  goes  down  a-rollin'  into  the  road,  with 
Gardner  hafter  us.  Gardner,  'e  picks  'isself  hup 
an'  'oofs  it  for  the  station,  never  carin'  for  me; 
but  that's  hall  reg'lar,  'cause  'e  goes  hoff  juty  at 
two-thirty.  That's  'ow  Hi  knowed  wot  time  it  wos 
— haccount  of  Gardner  leavin'  me  in  the  ditch  an' 
'oofin'  it  for  the  station.  Hi'd  jest  come  hon  juty; 
so  Hi  'as  to  pick  myself  hup — an'  make  it  'ot  for 
'm,"  indicating  the  wounded  man  in  the  chair. 
"So  Hi  spits  hout  a  mouthful  of  sand-pebbles  back 


262      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

hon  to  the  road  (where  they'd  houghter  of  stayed  hin 
the  first  place)  an'  I  yells  at  'im:  ^'Altl'  says  Hi. 
But  ofF  'e  goes,"  His  wooden  face  took  on  an 
aggrieved  look  like  a  boy's  when  left  behind  in  a 
race. 

Rosamond  exclaimed  angrily: 

"You  should  have  let  him  go.  You  had  no  right 
to  shoot!" 

"Hi'U  shoot  hany  man  wot  jumps  on  my  'ead — 
'specially  at  that  time  o  night  T'  He  spoke  as  one 
positively  within  his  rights.  "  'Ow  was  Hi  to  know 
'e  was  your  'usband,  ma'am?" 

"My — my     .     .     ..f*"  she  gasped. 

"  'Specially  as  hit  was  in  the  dark.  But  hi  wouldn't 
a-knowed  if  hit  'ad  ben  in  the  Hght.  Now,  if  you'll 
give  me  the  nyme,  ma'am,  Hi'U  be  hofF  and  make  my 
report  to  the  chief."  He  brought  a  large  tablet 
notebook  and  pencil  out  of  his  pocket.  Rosamond 
looked  at  the  vagabond,  her  face  blank  with  dismay. 

"Report.''    Oh-h — you  mustn't     ..." 

"You  needn't  report  this,  officer," — quickly  com- 
ing to  her  rescue — "I  have  no  complaint  to  make. 
It  was  purely  an  accident." 

"Oh  yes!  purely  an  accident;  not  of  the  least  im- 
portance!" she  emphasized,  snatching  gratefully  at 
the  straw. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  ma'am.  Hi'U  take  his  nyme 
jes'  the  syme,  as  a  matter  of  juty." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      263 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  two  disconcerted 
persons  faced  each  other  with  perplexed  looks. 

"Certainly — certainly — er — but  I  am  not  this 
lady's  husband     .     .     ." 

*'Then — ^wot  is  she  makin'  such  a  goin'  hon  habout 
yer  for?"  severely. 

"Well— I— er— Fm— her  chaufFeur." 

"Yes!"  she  echoed,  almost  sobbing  in  her  relief. 
"Yes!  he's  the  chauflFeur." 

The  impromptu  motorist  continued: 

"You  see — er — there  was  a  party  this  evening  and 
I  drove  some  of  the  guests  home — er — I  had  just 
returned.  So — er — that  was  how  it  happened  I  was 
so  late — two-forty-five  I  think  you  said,  by  the 
cherry-ripe  timepiece." 

"Yes!  that  was  it,"  Rosamond  assisted  cheerfully. 
Her  chauffeur!  Wonderful  vagabond !  How  cleverly 
he  had  extricated  her  from  a  problem  which,  in  Rose- 
borough,  could  have  had  but  one — and  that  a  fatal — • 
termination. 

"Wot  Hi'd  like  to  know  is,  w'y  was  you  standin' 
on  the  porch  railin'  w'en  Hi  was  comin'  hup  the  road  V 
Mr.  Marks,  it  appeared,  had  an  unfortunate  memory 
for  details. 

"Oh,  that.?"  with  a  degage  air.  "When  you 
were  coming  up  the  road? — er — .  Was  that  what 
I  heard?  I  was  in  here  to — er — to  get  a  bite  of 
supper — see,   there   are   the  plates   on   the   table — 


264      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

when — hist! — I  heard  something — something  sus- 
picious. I  Hstened."  He  paused  dramatically. 
Marks  nodded,  all  agog.  "Er — it  was  a  noise!'' 
He  felt  his  inventive  powers  weakening.  Marks 
nodded  again,  wisely. 

"  'Earin'  a  noise^  is  wot  makes  hany  man  suspic- 
ious." 

"Er — I  thought  it  might  be  a  tramp.  So  I 
climbed  on  the  railing — er — to  see  better.  I  thought 
I  saw  a  man — a  tramp — climbing  up  the  bank.  So — 
of  course — I  jumped  on  him ! "  His  manner  declared 
that  to  leap  from  a  high  rail  down  upon  the  heads 
of  tramps,  was  a  tenet  he  had  held  from  childhood. 

"Wen  you  saw  hit  were  a  horfcer  of  the  law — ^w'y 
didn't  you  'alt  w'en  Hi  said  'alt?" 

"Oh — that.f"'  casually;  he  considered:  "Well, 
you  see,  I  was  so  frightened  when  I  saw  that  I  had 
apparently  attacked  a  constable — I  lost  my  head 
and     .     .     ." 

"You  nearly  lost  me  my  'ead — a-jumpin'  on  it 
like  a  fancy  'igh  diver  on  a  rollin'  wave."  He  ac- 
costed Rosamond,  formally,  pointing  his  pencil  at  her. 
"And  your  nyme's  'Mearely,'  you  say,  ma'am .f* 
Hi'd  oughter  know  but  Hi  hain't  been  on  the  county 
force  more'n  three  years  an'  it  takes  me  a  whiles 
to  get  hacquainted.  My  motto,  as  Hi  says  hit  to 
myself  a  'undred  times  a  day,  is  'Slow  and  careful, 
Halfred.'     'Mrs,  Mearely,'  you  said?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      265 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Mearely.     Hawthorne  Road." 

He  bit  his  pencil  carefully  and  indited. 

**Hi  knows  the  road  hall  right — an'  hafter  this 
Hi'll  stick  to  it — if  hall  the  King's  'orses  an'  hall  the 
King's  men  is  a-standin'  on  the  porch  railin'.  Let 
'em  stand  there,  Hi  say.  And  see  'ow  they  like  it! 
Good-night,  ma'am."  He  put  away  his  note  book 
and  pencil  and  started  slowly  toward  the  door.  The 
vagabond  waved  him  a  pleasant  farewell. 

"There'll  be  no  complaint  from  me.  Good-night 
sergeant." 

Mr.  Marks  retraced  his  few  deliberate  steps. 

"Hi  hain't  the  sergeant,  thankin'  you  kindly.  Hi 
ought  to  be.  But  to  hought  hain't  to  is — as  Hi  tells 
Mrs.  Marks — she  bein'  hambitious.  Beggin'  your 
pardon,  there's  a  little  matter  Hi'd  like  to  arsk  your 
hadvice  about.  An'  that  his:  Might  you  'ave  'ad 
a  confederate  houtside?"  He  gestured  with  his 
thumb. 

"A  confederate?"  in  surprise. 

"No.  Hi  suppose  not"  disappointedly.  "You 
bein'  the  shoofer,  Hi  couldn't  say  wot  you'd  want  of 
a  confederate.  But  Hi  could  a-swore  Hi  saw  a  'eavy- 
set  lookin'  man  hon  the  'illside  habove  me  w'en  Hi 
started  hup  to  inquire  wot  you  was  doin*  hon  that 
there  railin'.  That's  wot  I  fired  the  second  shot  for, 
w'en  I  got  hup  from  hunder  your  boots.  But  my 
eyes  not  bein'  the  best,  Hi  couldn't  swear  hif  it  was 


266      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

a  man  hor  a  strayed  cow,  hor  a  jumper  bush.  But 
Hi  took  a  pot  shot  at  wot  Hi  thought  it  was;  and  hit 
seemed  to  me  like  Hi  'eard  a  groan.  Hit  might 
'ave  been  a  cow.     Did  you  groan?" 

"Moo— oo.     Like  that?" 

Marks  studied  the  sound. 

"Hi  carn't  say  Hi  recognize  hit.  Hi  do  wish  Hi 
was  a  better  'and  at  'ittin  wot  Hi  shoots  at.  That's 
halways  been  a  faihn'  o'  mine.  Look,  in  your  hown 
case — just  a  hit  of  a  scratch,  that's  hall — and  me 
a-'oldin'  on  to  your  coat-tails  at  the  time.  It'ud 
count  for  a  miss.  Hit's  very  'umiliatin'  to  a  horfcer. 
At  that,  it  might  'ave  been  a  juniper  bush.  Good- 
night, sir." 

He  surveyed  his  victim  from  the  doorway  in  a 
peevish  fashion  and  muttered: 

"  Hi  do  wish  my  aim  was  better.     Hi  do  wish  that." 

"Oh,  good-night !''  Rosamond  cried  in  uncontroll- 
able exasperation. 

Constable  Marks  took  out  his  watch. 

"Good-wornm',  Hi  should  say."  Without  undue 
haste  he  put  his  watch  away,  touched  his  hat,  first 
to  one,  then  to  the  other,  and  moved  off  along  the 
verandah. 

"Thank  heaven  he's  gone!  Oh  Vagabond,  I  wish 
the  doctor  would  come!  If  only  Blake  were  here  to 
help  you  to  bed." 

The  vagabond  was  on  his  feet,  rocking  in  a  gale  of 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      267 

laughter  which  only  main  force  had  silenced  until  the 
constable's  exit. 

"Fm  not  going  to  bed!  For  a  bit  of  a  scratch 
like  this  ?  Never.  Besides,  I  might  miss  something. 
Oh,  human  nature!     How  rich  it  is,  how  glorious!" 

"Oh!  don't  laugh  like  that.  It  exerts  you  too 
much.  You  must  be  so  weak."  She  tried  to  induce 
him  to  sit  down  again  among  the  pillows  of  the  arm- 
chair. 

"Fm  not  weak!" — he  denied  the  charge  as  if  it 
affronted  him — "only  perishing  for  a  drink  of  water." 

"There  is  ice-water  in  the  cooler  on  the  dining- 
room  table.  FU  bring  you  a  glass."  She  was 
flitting  away  to  get  it,  but  he  intercepted  her. 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not!  You  must  not  wait  on 
me  any  more.  Fm  neither  a  cripple — nor  royalty. 
Oh,  by  the  way" — he  closed  the  dining  room  door 
again  and  came  back  to  her — "Who  is  Blake? 
You  mentioned  a  Blake  just  now." 

"He's  the  coachman.     Why?" 

He  laughed. 

"You  are  sure  he's  not  the  chauffeur?" 

"No,"  she  smiled. 

"To  think  I  should  have  to  be  a  chauffeur  after 
all!"  He  threw  out  his  hands  with  the  surrendering 
gesture  of  one  who  has  ceased  to  defy  destiny. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  society's  greatest  need  was 
chauffeurs?     See  how  I  arose,  instinctively,  to  meet 


268      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMONDr 

the    demand.     Your    chauffeur,    madam — I    mean 


ma'am.' 


"It  is  so  lucky  that  you  thought  of  that!"  she 
replied;  then  they  both  laughed  again,  in  delight,  as 
well  as  mirth,  because  they  shared  so  entertaining  a 
secret  unknown  to  all  the  world. 

**But  I  warn  you,  never  let  me  drive  your  auto- 
mobile if  you  value  your  life.  I  am  a  chauffeur  in 
name  only." 

"Never  fear,"  she  answered  gaily.  "I  don't  re- 
quire your  services.  I  have  no  automobile — except 
a  little  electric;  and  I  drive  that  myself." 

"Wise  woman!.  If  you  could  only  drive  your 
'little  electric'  of  life  as  cleverly!" 

She  tossed  her  head,  spiritedly. 

'Tve  never  had  an  accident!" 

He  challenged  this. 

"Because  you  never  turn  any  other  roads  than 
the  smooth  paths  of  Mrs.  Mearely's  walled  enclosure 
— where  there  are  no  fascinating  dangers.  At  least, 
not  for  you" 

Though  she  smiled,  her  answer  was  only  half 
humorous. 

"But  what  happens  to  people  who  try  to  escape 
from  the  safe  enclosures  ? — Those,  I  mean,  who  won't 
live  the  way  others  want  them  to?" 

"Ah!"  he  cried.  "They  make  one  glorious  blind 
leap  for  freedom     ..." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      269 

"And  land  on — *the  'ead  of  the  Law/"  she  re- 
torted. 

''Break  its  head!  The  sooner  the  better"  smil- 
ingly. 

**They  can't,"  she  replied,  gravely;  though  the 
light  his  coming  had  put  into  her  eyes,  like  new 
candles,  was  still  there.  "The  law  is  too  strong. 
It  brings  them  back  again — ^wounded ! "  She  pointed 
to  the  bandage. 

When  he  answered,  there  was  a  defiant  ring  in  his 
voice  that  was  not  all  pretence.  All  his  gypsying 
past  was  calling  to  him  to  guard  himself  against  the 
unconscious  power  of  the  little  lady  of  the  museum 
whose  shining  eyes  told  so  frankly  that  her  heart  had 
set  out  on  the  great  search. 

"A  pin-scratch  on  the  skin  of  my  shoulder! 
That's  all  that  the  talons  of  social  law  have  been  able 
to  do  to  this  vagabond.  I  go  to  drink  to  liberty — 
and  the  open  road — in  a  bumper  of  ice-water." 

He  departed  with  a  dramatic  flourish.  As  the 
door  closed  behind  him,  Rosamond  indulged  in  a 
long,  delicious  sigh,  thinking  what  a  marvellous  end 
her  Wonderful  Day  was  coming  to,  and  slipped  into 
the  big  chair  he  had  vacated.  On  the  stand  just 
beside  the  chair,  which  was  placed  close  to  the  end 
of  the  settee,  the  bowl  and  linen  strips  were  still  in 
view.  She  rose  and  gathered  them  up.  The  bowl 
still  held  some  water.     She  ran  to  the  verandah  rail 


270      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r 

and  emptied  it.  Seeing  a  towel,  another  sponge  and 
a  roll  of  batting  on  the  big  table,  she  picked  up  these 
various  items,  and  patted  them  into  the  bowl  pre- 
paratory to  putting  them  safely  out  of  sight  until  the 
doctor  should  arrive  and  perhaps  need  chem. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SUDDENLY  she  started,  in  alarm,  and  ran  to 
the  dining  room  door.  She  had  heard  a  loud 
groan.  Even  while  she  reached  to  turn  the  handle 
she  heard  it  again;  but  not  from  the  direction  of  the 
dining  room.  If  sound  indicated  truly,  there  was 
someone  outside — someone  in  distress.  Immediately, 
she  heard  a  heavy  tread  on  the  verandah  and  a  large 
swarthy,  black-whiskered  man  in  black  clothes 
Hmped  upon  her  horizon.  She  emitted  a  pathetic 
little  moan  of  fright,  turned  pale  and  dropped  every- 
thing but  the  bowl.  Her  fingers  clung  to  that, 
mechanically. 

The  intruder  removed  his  hat,  and  bowed  very  low. 

**Guten  Morgen,  meine  Dame,     Verstehen  Sie  ?*' 

"Oh — oh!"  She  breathed  out  her  interjections 
as  a  sort  of  windy,  wordless  prayer  to  be  spared 
more  excitement  even  on  her  Wonderful  Day.  Until 
this  day  nothing  had  ever  happened  in  Roseborough. 
Now,  too  much  was  happening.  The  swarthy  man 
bowed  again  profoundly. 

**  J'espere  que  je  ne  vous  derange  pas,  madame, 
Comprenez-vous  ?  " 

"Oh — h!    What  is  he  saying?"    Then,  losing  the 

271 


272      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

last  remnants  of  her  poise  she  waved  him  off  wildly> 
chattering:  "I  don't  wish  any,  thank  you.  No,  1 
don't  want  anything  to-day.     Oh — h !  go-o  away." 

He  was  unmoved  by  her  explosion.  Bowing 
again,  he  said : 

"Ah,  you  speak  the  English.  I  cannot  complain. 
It  is  your  language.  I  also  speak  it  perfectly — as 
you  hear." 

She  did  not  venture  to  inform  him  that  his  accent 
was  execrable.  She  only  stared,  and  her  pale  lips 
silently  shaped  the  words  "go  away." 

"I  speak  it  perfectly,  but  I  detest  it.  The  whole 
world  must  speak  their  abominable  language  be- 
cause they  will  not  learn  any  other.  Even  the  Irish 
must  learn  English  before  they  can  curse  it  for 
sympathy.  I  detest  the  English.  When  I  meet  a 
stranger,  I  address  him  first  in  German;  next" — he 
enumerated  them  rapidly — "in  the  French,  Italian, 
Spanish,  Russ,  Magyar,  Turkish  and  the  Chinese. 
Then  if  he  will  not  .  .  ." — with  a  shrug — "I  con- 
descend to  speak  the  English — but  always  against 
my  will.     I  detest  the  English." 

If  Rosamond  thought  at  all  during  this  address,  she 
must  have  thought  the  man  mad.  She  was  afraid  to 
speak  or  move;  she  stared,  hoping  perhaps  to  conquer 
the  maniac,  if  such  he  were,  by  the  power  of  her 
fixed  eye. 

"Ah! — pardon''     He  gave  the  word  the  French 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      273 

pronunciation;  and  stooping  painfully,  picked  up  the 
towel  and  handed  it  to  her.  Since  she  did  not  take 
it,  he  draped  it  over  her  arm,  seemingly  unaware  that 
she  backed  away  from  him. 

^^ Pardon."  He  picked  up  the  two  sponges,  one  in 
each  hand,  and  put  them  into  the  bowl.  ''Pardon" 
and  the  roll  of  batting  followed  the  sponges.  ''  Par^ 
don"  and  ''pardon,^  et  cetera,  and  one  by  one  the 
Hnen  strips  were  hung  over  the  towel  on  her  arm. 
Then  he  withdrew  a  few  steps  and  bowed. 

"What — ^what  are  you  doing  here?''  She  man- 
aged to  ask  at  length.     "Who  are  you?" 

"Madam,  my  mission  in  your  detestable  country, 
for  a  few  hours  longer,  is  a  secret.  But  my  name  I 
disclose:  it  is  to  comfort  your  alarms.  How  can  one 
better  comfort  the  alarms  than  to  introduce  to  you 
Teodor  Carl  Peter  Lassanavatiewicz,  of  the  diploma- 
tic secret  service  of  Woodseweedsetisky  ?  I  have 
been  wounded  in  that  service.  Not  my  word  alone, 
but  my  murdered  leg,  introduces  me  to  you  as  a 
patriot." 

"Wounded?"  she  repeated  automatically. 

"/^,  meine  Dame.  I  have  been  execrably,  abomi- 
nably wounded  in  the  leg.  My.  secret  business — 
and,  believe,  it  is  of  a  most  international  importance 
— has  brought  me  to  your  country.  I  can  explain 
no  more.  I  am  a  believer  not  in  the  discretion  of 
woman."     He  bowed. 


274      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  garden?"  She  de- 
manded with  an  effort  to  master  her  fears. 

He  bowed. 

"  Bitte.  That  is  the  concern  of  my  secret  business. 
I  wish  to  meet  a  certain  person  very  quietly,  and 
induce  that  person  to  return  with  me  very  quietly — 
to — shall  I  say? — yes? — his  family?  Yes.  I  wish 
to  take  a  certain  great  person  home.  Why  I  now 
make  myself  known  to  you,  that  I  will  explain.  In 
the  peaceful  and  very  secret  pursuit  of  my  duties,  I 
have  been  perceived  by  a  lady  of  some  age  and  much 
excitement,  who  screams  like  a  parrot  because  she 
sees  me  looking,  very  gently,  over  your  balcony. 
I  wish  to  give  no  alarms.  Therefore  I  look  no  more 
over  your  balcony.  Instead,  I  hide  in  the  river-grass 
till  the  guests  have  departed  and  the  lights  you  have 
put  out.  Then  I  return.  But  it  becomes  unsafe  in 
your  garden.  There  are  bandits.  I  have  been  shot 
in  the  leg.  Donnerzvetter !  I  have  been  detestably 
shot  in  the  leg!  Therefore,  I  make  myself  known 
and  request  your  permission  to  continue  to  watch, 
in  the  road  below  your  garden,  for  the  arrival  of  a 
certain  person — ^without  attacks  from  bandits.  I 
will  sit  upon  a  stone  under  the  cypress  trees.  I  will 
alarm  no  one.  I  request  only  that  I  be  no  more 
attacked.^' 

"Oh  yes!  oh,  please  go  now.  No  one  will  attack 
you." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      275 

He  bowed  again,  twice. 

"Grazia,  grazia,  signora.  It  is  most  important 
that  my  business  remain  secret.  Be  at  ease.  You, 
also,  are  safe  while  Teodor  Carl  Peter  Lassanavatie- 
wicz  is  in  your  garden.  Comfort  your  alarms.  I 
request  it  as  a  charity,  madam, — ^will  you  of  your 
goodness  give  me  of  the  linen,  with  which  you  have 
doubtless  tended  the  wounds  of  the  man  of  your 
household,  who  has  been  attacked  by  the  violent 
savages  who  infest  this  road.  I  heard  the  terrible 
battle  in  the  darkness.  I  tried  to  escape.  Psst! 
/  was  shot!'' 

Holding  out  her  arm  on  which  he  had  hung  the 
strips,  and  keeping  herself  literally  *at  arm's  length' 
from  his  touch,  she  indicated  that  he  was  to  help 
himself.  He  took  three  pieces,  bowed  after  each 
taking,  and  thanked  her  in  three  languages. 

''Danke  schon.  Grazia.  Je  vous  remercie  mille 
fois,  madame.''  Then,  with  an  expression  and  ges- 
ture of  dislike,  he  added,  "But  I  forget!  you  speak 
only  this  desolating  and  dolorific  EngHsh — ^which  I 
detest.  Adios.  Farewell."  On  the  verandah,  he 
paused.  "When  my  secret  business  is  accomplished, 
I  rejoice  to  return  to  Europe  and  my  own  country, 
where  there  are  no  dangers  to  the  distinguished  official 
high  in  the  secret  police.  I  give  a  gold  coin  to  the 
brigands  of  Poland  or  to  the  anarchists  of  our  Balkans. 
^^,De   donde   bueno?     Si,    Senor.'     So   it    is    happily 


276      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

arranged.  Here,  no!  They  wait  not  for  *  good- 
evening.'  They  shoot — in  the  leg  !  Donnerwetter  I 
I,  who  have  fought  close  to  all  the  rebellions  in 
Woodseweedsetisky  without  a  match-burn,  I  have 
here  been  execrably  wounded  in  the  leg.  It  is 
insult ! "  His  voice  trembled  and  tears  of  humiliation 
wetted  his  cheeks.  Drawing  himself  up,  he  put  on 
his  hat  and  gestured  to  her  with  the  formality  of  a 
military  salute.  ''  Je  vous  rends  graces,  madame.^* 
He  limped  out,  with  groans  that  grew  fainter  as  he 
progressed  into  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Mearely  stared  after  him,  still  in  doubt  that 
he  had  really  occurred.  She  tiptoed,  fearfully,  to 
the  door  and  peeped  out,  to  satisfy  herself  that  he 
was  not  loitering  on  her  verandah.  What  had  he 
said  in  explanation  of  his  presence?  She  tried  to 
recall  his  words,  but  remembered  only  the  phrases 
about  taking  a  certain  great  person  home,  diplomatic 
service  of  some  country,  or  city,  hitherto  unheard  of, 
and  that  he  had  looked  over  the  balcony  before  and 
been  screamed  at  by  a  lady  of  some  age  and  much 
excitement.  So  it  was  he  and  not  the  vagabond 
who  had  looked  over  her  balcony,  alarming  Mrs. 
Witherby.  Then  who  was  the  vagabond  and  why 
had  he  also  come  to  Villa  Rose?  Was  there  any 
connection  between  the  two?  Were  they  both  dark 
and  secret  "gentlemen  burglars,''  about  to  strip 
Villa   Rose  of  all  its   antiques?     She   rejected  this 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      277 

suspicion  firmly,  as  soon  as  it  rose.     Romance  forbade 
it. 

In  putting  the  bowl  back  on  the  stand  she  knocked 
off  the  Digest  and  the  Browning.  Automatically, 
she  picked  them  up.  The  caption  "A  Runaway 
Prince"  caught  her  eye  and  held  it.  Gradually  her 
expression  changed.  The  colour  burned  in  her 
cheeks  again,  as  the  thrill  of  amazement  and  excite- 
ment palpitated  through  her.  She  scanned  the 
article  feverishly,  muttering  snatches  of  it  aloud. 

"*The  Runaway  Prince!  Secret  search  through 
Europe,  Britain,  and  America.'  The  Prince  is 
*  eccentric,  romantic,  artistic,  a  connoisseur.' — Of 
course!  He  picked  out  the  Turner  at  once!  and  the 
Buddha!  Oh,  can  it  be  .  .  .  .?"  She  con- 
sulted the  paper  again.  "'The  prince  is  fond  of 
entering,  incognito,  the  homes  of  humble  folk — 
frequently  attired  like  a  vagabond.'"  The  paper 
fell  from  her  hand.  "*Fond  of  entering  the  homes' — 
'secret  search' — *to  bring  a  certain  great  person 
home' — ?  Oh,  it  is — it  is  the  prince!  A  prince  has 
come  to  me,  on  my  Wonderful  Day!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  VOICE  broke  in  upon  her  blissful  musings,  in  a 
strain  both  matter-of-fact  and  gently  reproach- 
ful. 

"You  never  gave  me  any  jelly.  I  found  one  out 
there;  it  was  delicious.  Also  a  truly  amazing  cake. 
I  think  I  may  deduce  from  the  state  of  my  appetite 
that  I  forgot  to  eat  a  dinner  to-night.  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber now.  I  wrote  a  poem  instead.  All  but  the 
last  verse.  That  didn't  seem  to  come.  So  I  wound 
up  with  coflFee  and  cheese." 

The  Incognito  sauntered  in  from  the  dining  room 
with  a  comforted  look  on  his  countenance. 

"That  farther  compartment  of  your  museum,  the 
kitchen,  seemed  familiar.  I  was  led  to  explore  it. 
I  do  not  despise  kitchens — nor  pantries.  I  have  a 
fancy  for  them.  Nothing  delights  me  like  entering 
a  pantry — unobserved." 

Noting  Mrs.  Mearely's  absorbed  gaze,  he  became 
self-conscious.  He  looked  at  her;  then  endeavoured, 
by  looking  directly  from  her  eyes  to  his  own  person,  to 
discern  what  it  was  that  had  inspired  her  fixed  stare. 

"Is  anything  the  matter  with  me?  I  mean,  any- 
thing more  than  usual?" 

278 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      279 

"Oh  no,  Your  Hi "     She  checked  the  reverent 

utterance  quickly.     "Oh — oh — no!" 

"I  thought,  perhaps  .  .  .  Nevermind.  What 
I  was  about  to  tell  you  is,  that  I  explored  your  pantry 
with  better  success  than  you  did  when  you  prepared 
my  supper.  You  overlooked  a  cake  fit  for  a  prince — 
Eh.?  What?  Oh,  merely  an  exclamation.?  It  is 
a  miracle  of  beauty  to  look  at — and,  to  eat!  Who 
made  it?  I  ask,  because  the  cooker  of  that  cake  has 
the  soul  of  an  artist.  I  wish  to  spend  my  days  in 
the  shadow  of  her  wing." 

"I  made  it."  She  blushed,  happily,  under  the 
royal  praise. 

"You?  Put  a  raisin  in  your  diadem,  as  its  central 
jewel!" 

"You  will  not  mock  at  the  'museum'  any  more 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  found  the  recipe  for  that  cake 
in  an  old  parchment.  The  Countess  of  Mountjoye 
invented  the  cake  first  in  171 5  for  the  Prince  of 
Paradis:  and  history  says  she  was  the  only  one  of  his 
sweethearts  who  never  lost  his  aflFection.  So,  you 
see,  it  was  always  a  ..."  (she  paused,  changed 
the  phrase  she  was  about  to  use,  namely,  "a  prince's 
cake"  into)  "a  cake  fit  for  a  prince." 

"And  she  never  lost  his  affection?  I  can  well 
believe  it!  For  I  feel  tender  toward  her,  even  two 
hundred  years  later.  But,  since  I  cannot  lay  my 
royal  heart  at  her  feet,  I  consign  it  to  that  spot  on  the 


28o      "GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

rug  just  between  your  two  silver-toed  slippers. 
Ah!"  he  sighed. 

"Are  you  feeling  any  pain  now?"  respectfully. 
He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  a  change  in  her  manner 
but,  being  ignorant  of  the  cause,  attached  no  im- 
portance to  it,  as  yet. 

"From  the  cake?     By  no  means!" 

"From  your  wound."  Her  manner  reproached 
him  for  his  flippancy.  Then  she  remembered  that  he 
did  not  know  how  close  his  would-be  captor  lay; 
and  that,  even  if  he  were  not  wounded,  it  would  be 
almost  impossible  for  him  to  slip  away  from  Villa 
Rose,  to  pursue  his  glad,  free  wanderings,  unless 
perhaps  she  could  devise  some  subtle  disguise  to  aid 
him — even  as  the  medieval  ladies,  in  Hibbert 
Mearely's  old  books,  passed  their  gentlemen,  royal 
and  otherwise,  out  of  compromising  situations. 

"Oh  none, — none"  he  answered.  "IVe  forgotten 
I  was  ever  at  the  wrong  end  of  a  gun." 

She  pushed  the  big  chair  toward  him. 

"Will  you  not  sit  down?" 

"By  no  means.  Allow  me  to  place  the  chair  for 
you''  He  laid  hold  of  its  other  arm  to  push  it 
toward  her,  and  she  resisted  with  all  the  etiquette 
at  her  command. 

"Oh  no!"  she  was  shocked.  "You  must  allow 
me  to  place  it  for  you,"  He,  in  his  turn,  resisted  as 
firmlv. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!*'      281 

"Because  I  am  a  poor,  sick,  helpless  creature? 
Is  that  why  you  insist  on  waiting  on  me  ? "  He  had  a 
sturdy  masculine  objection  to  this  view  of  him.  She 
blushed. 

"Oh,  no!     That  is  not  the  reason." 

The  expression  in  her  shining  eyes  contented  him. 
He  sank  among  the  cushions;  and,  closing  his  hand 
over  hers,  drew  her  to  the  broad,  square  stool  beside 
his  chair. 

"There!  I  will  sit;  and  you  shall  sit  beside  me  and 
tell  me  wherefore  you  have  changed  your  ways  with 
me — holding  chairs  for  me  and  so  forth." 

The  whimsical  air  left  him.  His  black  eyes  grew 
grave.  He  was  touehed  by  the  look  of  awe  and 
wonder  she  turned  up  to  him,  and  his  feeling  for  her 
was  deepening  and  taking  possession  of  him. 

"One  waits  on — princes,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
catch  of  her  breath.     He  laughed  softly. 

"Oh,  Madam  Make-Believe!  Will  you  crown  the 
vagabond  now  and  make  a  prince  of  him — thou 
cooker  of  prince's  cakes?  If  I  were  a  prince,  do  you 
know  what  my  name  would  be?  Fd  be  Prince 
Run- Away." 

"Yes!"  she  cried.     "Prince  Run-Away!" 

"There  are  several  kinds  of  vagabonds,  my  dear; 
and  neither  palace  nor  cottage  walls  can  hold  them! 
Nor  catch  and  cage  them  again,  once  they  have 
escaped."     Even    as   he   said   it,   he   knew  that  it 


282      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

was  less  true,  at  that  moment,  than  it  had  been  before 
he  entered  the  strange  house  and  encountered  the 
fairy  princess  in  the  museum. 

'*If  he  knew  that  his  own  Secret  Service  is  lurking 
just  outside,  to  snatch  him  back  into  his  palace- 
prison'/'  she  thought.     Aloud  she  said,  timidly: 

"But  there's  the  law." 

"What  law  is  there  that  can't  be  broken?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  answered,  "that  there  is  a 
law  that  can't  be  broken?  It  was  made  for  us,  by 
something  stronger  than  we  are;  and  it  says  that 
human  beings  must  live  together,  in  families  and 
groups.  Because  the  need  of  brotherhood  is  the 
strongest  thing  in  them.  And  that  need  is  the  law. 
Have  you  never  felt  it.  Prince  Run-Away?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  said,  seriously; 

**There  is  always  need  of  love — true  love.  But 
there  is  so  much  counterfeit  love  in  the  world,  Rosa- 
mond. To  pass  all  the  little  waving  false  hands 
safely— losing  no  grain  of  faith,  nor  drop  of  tenderness 
by  the  way — and  come,  at  last,  and  fold  your  heart's 
wings  softly  in  two  tender,  loyal  hands,  which  will 
never  weary  and  never  unclasp " 

She  surrendered  her  hands,  willingly.  It  would  be 
something  sweet  to  remember  all  her  life,  how  a 
prince  had  held  them  tenderly. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      283 

**Do  you  know — in  the  twilight,  as  I  came  along 
through  the  rushes  of  the  river-path — I  made  a  little 
poem  to  you  ?     I  did  not  know  it  was  to  you." 

He  drew  a  small  note  book  from  one  of  his  pockets, 
and  turned  its  pages. 

"There  it  is,  you  see — all  zigzagged  across  the 
paper — like  the  little  zigzag  path  in  the  dusk. 
But  both  came  straight  to  you." 

"Oh!  is  this  your  book  of  poems .f""  eagerly. 

"It  is  one  of  them.  I  have  others.  Six,  to  be 
exact.  Two  are  with  a  friend  in  St.  Petersburg. 
He  is  translating  them.  One  is  in  my  hut.  Another 
is  in  London,  where  it  will  soon  be  published.  And 
the  best — the  first,  the  youngest,  and  dearest — the 
one  Fm  proudest  of — is  buried  in  a  biscuit  tin  in 
Idaho." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  thrilled.  "To  think  you've 
wandered  through  all  those  places — Prince  Run- 
Away." 

"To  come  at  last  to  you — Madam  Make-Believe." 

He  looked  at  her  so  long  that  her  lashes  drooped 
and  her  colour  came  and  went. 

"Read  it  to  me — my  poem" — she  said  softly,  and 
leaned  over  the  manuscript.  Her  hair  touched  his 
cheek,  as  he  also  leaned  over  to  descry  the  words  he 
had  pencilled  in  the  dark. 

"If  I  were  a  ship  on  the  deep  seas  flowing, 
If  I  were  a  ship  on  the  waters  blue, 


284      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

rd  go  sailing  round  the  world  of  women 
To  the  harbour  lights  and  the  ports  of  You. 

"If  I  were  a  cloud  in  the  high  air  blowing, 
If  I  were  a  cloud  in  the  sapphire  skies, 
Oh,  rd  break  my  rest  in  the  orbs  of  heaven, 
To  be  the  mist  in  your  young,  blue  eyes. 

"  If  I  were  the  grass  in  the  green  earth  growing, 
If  I  were  the  grass  where  the  wild  flowers  meet, 
I  would  leave  my  peace  in  the  morning  meadows. 
To  deck  life's  road  for  your  eager  feet." 

He  ceased,  and  she  looked  up,  wistfully. 

"Isn't  there  any  more?  Oh,  make  it  up!"  she 
pleaded.  "Make  it  up,  now!"  The  book  dropped 
back  into  the  big  pocket. 

"Make  it  up  now?"  he  echoed.  He  put  his  arm 
gently  about  her  shoulders,  as  if  he  meant  to  say 
that  he  would  not  hold  her  against  her  wish.  Then, 
hesitating,  here  and  there,  for  the  words,  he  went  on : 

"Oh,  would  I  were  Love — Love's  true  art  knowing: 
Would  I  were  Love — I  would  wrap  you  round ! 
My  faith  for  your  home,  and  my  songs  for  your  wending, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart,  for  your  garden-ground." 

Then,  since  love  and  youth  must  have  their  way,  he 
kissed  her;  and  found,  with  her,  that  her  lips  had 
waited  for  his.  In  that  instant  principalities  and 
powers — his  kingdom  and  her  village — melted  into 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      285 

mist.  There  were  no  countries,  no  degrees,  no  secret 
service  nor  scandal-mongers,  no  differences  of  race 
and  place:  love  had  met  with  love. 

They  were  recalled  to  Roseborough  by  the  noise 
of  wheels  on  the  gravel  drive.  Rosamond  sprang 
up  in  alarm. 

"  Someone  coming  here  ? "  he  queried.  She  stopped 
him. 

"Don't  go  to  the  verandah.  If  you  should  be 
seen!  Oh,  hide!"  She  ran  to  the  door.  "Oh-h." 
It  was  a  gasp  of  relief.  "Of  course;  it  is  the  doctor." 
She  smiled.  Her  smile  faded,  however,  instantly; 
and  she  interjected  again. 

"What's  the  matter  now.?"  the  prince  asked. 

"You  can't  tell  Dr.  Wells  you  are  my  chauffeur. 
He  knows  I  haven't  one!" 

The  doctor's  footsteps  were  coming  along  the 
porch. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  hastily.  "I'll  tell  him  some- 
thing." 

Dr.  Wells,  entering  hurriedly,  with  his  little  black 
bag  in  his  hand  and  neighbourly  anxiety  in  his  heart, 
encountered  Mrs.  Mearely  on  her  threshold,  and  saw 
no  farther.     He  was  astounded. 

"Mrs.  Mearely!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  are  able 
to'  be  up  ? " 

Rosamond  was  taken  aback  by  this  greeting,  not 
understanding  for  the  moment  that  the  doctor  had 


286      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

come  to  her  home  under  the  impression  that  she  her- 
self was  ill. 

"Yes,  certainly. — Oh,  I  see.  But  it  is  not  I  who 
need  your  services." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  of  that!  My  boy,  Peter,  who 
answered  the  telephone,  said  I  must  come  to  you  at 
once.  I  feared  you  had  been  taken  seriously  ill. 
So  I  hastened,  as  fast  as  possible — considering  that 
my  own  indigestion  was  acute.  I  delayed  only  to 
awaken  Mrs.  Wells,  and  tell  her  that  I  had  received 
an  urgent  call  to  your  home.  Dear,  dear!  she  was 
greatly  alarmed.  Indeed,  she  almost  insisted  on 
coming  with  me,  knowing  that  you  are  alone.  But 
I  couldn't  permit  it.  She  was  seized  with  such  a  fit 
of  hiccoughs  and  heart-burn,  poor  thing,  that  I  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  remain  warmly  in  bed." 

Even  his  capacious  lungs  needed  refilling  with  air 
at  times,  so  that  his  phiHppics  must  eventually  come 
to  a  period.  Rosamond  had  made  several  useless 
efforts  to  interrupt  him;  now  she  said  quickly,  to 
prevent  him  from  launching  another  fleet  of  paren- 
theses: 

"How  kind.  But,  as  you  see,  I  am  perfectly  well. 
It  is  this  gentleman  who  requires  your  services." 
She  led  the  way  to  the  big  chair,  where  the  vagabond 
had  settled  again,  perhaps  because  he  thought  that  a 
wounded  man  should  not  appear  too  brisk,  consider- 
ing the  hour  and  place. 


"GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMONDT      287 

"The  accident     .     .     ."  she  began. 

"Accident?"  Dr.  Wells  repeated.  "Dear,  dear. 
We  have  so  few  accidents,  fortunately.  Is  it  a 
fracture  ? " 

"Accidental  shooting,  doctor,"  the  prince  in- 
formed him.  "The  wound  is  in  the  shoulder."  He 
must  have  removed  her  bowknot  bandage  in  the 
dining  room,  because  it  was  no  longer  there  when  he 
slipped  his  coat  off.  Dr.  Wells  produced  a  huge  pair 
of  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  which  he  put  on  over  his 
small  gold-rimmed  ones. 

"Tst — tst — tst,"  he  muttered,  peering,  first  from 
one  side,  then  from  the  other;  "dear,  dear.  Yes,  yes. 
It  might  very  well  have  caused  your  death,  if  it  had 
been  in  some  other  part  of  the  body.  Yes,  indeed, 
not  so  slight  as  it  appears,  Mr. — "  He  paused, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other,  inquiringly.  Thinking 
his  tentative  query  had  not  been  heard  he  repeated 
it,  loudly,  "Mr. ?" 

"Er — Mr. "     Rosamond  stammered,  quickly. 

"Dr.  Wells  didn't  quite  catch  your  name." 

"My  name.?  Er— Mills.  Yes.  Mr.  Mills.  With 
two  I's,"  he  added;  as  though  to  prove  the  name  his 
own,  by  showing  that  he  could  spell  it;  or,  as  inept 
liars  always  overdo  matters,  by  adding  a  second  fib 
to  throw  suspicion  on  the  first.  "I  was  passing  along 
the  road  from  Trenton.  Some  constables  were  out 
hunting  a  tramp  who  had  alarmed  the  neighbourhood. 


288      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND 


a 


Some  one  shouted  'halt.'  I  supposed  it  was  an 
attempted  hold-up.  So  I  spurred  on;  and  got  a 
bullet  in  my  shoulder." 

In  the  pleasant  relief  of  this  plausible  tale,  Mrs. 
Mearely  embarked  upon  prevaricating  ventures  of 
her  own. 

"I — I  had  been  sitting  here  reading,  and  just  as  I 
was — er — about  to  retire — I  heard  voices — and  a 
shot.  So — so — I  ran  out.  And  when  I  saw  what 
had  happened — er — I  had  Mr.  Woods     ..." 

** Mills,"  he  corrected  her,  quickly,  "with  two  I's." 

"Mr.  Mills— with  two  Ts  Thank  you.  I  had 
Mr.  Mills  brought  here.     Then  I  sent  for  you." 

The  vagabond  prince  added  another  touch  of  real- 
ism to  the  fiction.  He  bowed  formally,  as  if  he  had 
only  now  perceived  that  there  was  a  lady  present, 
and  said: 

"I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness,  Mrs. ?" 

"Mrs.  Mearely."  She  took  the  cue  promptly  and, 
imitating  his  method,  painstakingly  spelled  the  name 
out:  "M-e-a-r-e-1-y." 

"Mrs.  Mearely,"  he  repeated,  and  bowed  again. 

Even  innocent-hearted  Dr.  Wells  might  have 
questioned  the  wherefore  of  this  spelling  bee,  if  he 
had  not  been  wholly  occupied  with  the  contents  of  his 
bag. 

"Now,  if  Dr.  Wells  will  kindly  patch  me  up  so  that 
I  can  set  out  on  my  way     .     .     ." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      289 

"No,  no!  You  daren't  go  on  now."  In  spite  of 
herself,  her  glance  went  to  the  verandah.  Had  the 
Secret  Service  come  creeping  up  from  the  road  again, 
to  see  that  His  Highness  did  not  escape  in  the  doctor's 
trap  ? 

"Go  on?  To-night?"  Dr.  Wells  shook  his  head. 
He  never  approved  of  rapid  convalescence.  "Oh, 
dear  no.  I  couldn't  advise  it.  Bed  and  rest,  my 
dear  sir;  bed  and  rest,  till  the  shock  is  abated.     Yes." 

"My  sister's  room  is  ready,"  Mrs.  Mearely  urged. 

"Mrs.  Mearely  is  kindness  itself."  The  vagabond 
bowed  again.  "  But  I  dare  not  lose  the  time.  I  am 
obliged  to  keep  an  appointment  to-morrow.  Impor- 
tant business." 

"At  least  let  me  dress  the  wound  properly — if 
we  may  use  your  sister's  room  for  that  purpose?" 

"Certainly,"  Rosamond  said  quickly,  silencing  the 
protest  she  saw  coming.  "You  must  submit  Mr. 
Wood — er — Mills.     You  know  the  way,  doctor?" 

She  opened  the  door,  at  the  right  of  the  music 
room,  where  the  stairs  began  their  windings  to  the 
upper  stories.  The  patient,  supported  by  the  doctor, 
and  still  protesting  about  his  appointment  elsewhere 
the  next  morning,  mounted  Slowly.  Rosamond 
waited  to  gather  up  her  bowl,  linen  and  sponges; 
then  she  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  ran  up  the 
stairs,  to  render  aid  in  the  bandaging,  if  necessary. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  room  to  which  the  wounded  gentleman  was 
conducted,  was  at  the  back  of  the  house  looking 
toward  the  peak  of  the  hill  and  over  a  corner  of  the 
orchard.  Ordinary  sounds  from  the  road  and  the 
front  of  the  house  did  not  reach  it. 

Dr.  Wells,  washed,  treated,  and  dressed  the  scratch, 
amid  dissertations  and  reminiscences,  while  Rosa- 
mond assisted  in  the  capacity  of  surgical  nurse,  and 
the  patient  stifled  yawns  and  mirth  and  the  desire 
to  embrace  the  beautiful  nurse;  all  three  being  bliss- 
fully unaware  that  there  weJ-e  anxious  guests  in  the 
living  room. 

Mrs.  Witherby,  bearing  all  the  marks  of  *  half- 
asleep,'  sat  in  the  big  chair,  looking  about  from  door 
to  door  with  barely  suppressed  excitement.  Corinne 
stood  near  her,  with  gaping  mouth  and  eyes,  and  a 
restless  alarm  that  kept  her  standing,  first  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other.  Mrs.  Witherby  punched  a 
cushion  at  her  back,  and  said  in  a  gusty  whisper: 

"I  suppose  we'd  better  sit  down  and  wait  till  the 
nurse  comes." 

"Has  she  a  nurse.?"  Corinne  whispered  back. 

"Of  course.     Dr.  Wells  would  see  to  that.     I  ex- 

290 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      291 

pect  he  brought  Jane  Hinch  with  him.  He  always 
foists  Jane  Hinch  on  his  patients.  /  wouldn't  have 
her  in  the  house.  I  don't  consider  her  efficient.  The 
fact  that  she  is  Mrs.  Wells's  cousin  is  no  recommenda- 
tion to  me.'' 

"Mrs.  Wells  didn't  seem  to  know  what  was  the 
matter  with  Mrs.  Mearely,  did  she?" 

"How  could  she  know  till  the  doctor  got  here? 
How  stupid  you  are,  Corinne!" 

"I'm  so  sleepy."     The  big,  round  eyes  blinked. 

"Well!"  irritatedly.  "Is  your  mother  not  sleepy 
too?  I  do  think  Mrs.  Wells  might  have  waited  till 
morning  to  telephone.  It  always  upsets  me  to  be 
waked  suddenly  like  that." 

"  But  she  knew  Mrs.  Mearely  was  alone.  It  must 
be  dreadful  to  be  ill  and  all  alone." 

"You  needn't  expatiate  on  it,  Corinne,"  sharply. 
**She  has  only  herself  to  thank  for  it.  I  did  my  best 
to  prevent  her  from  remaining  here  alone.  But 
she  was  ridiculously  obstinate  about  it.  She  even 
joined  Dr.  Wells  and  the  rest  of  them,  in  jeering  and 
snickering  at  my  caution.  Well,  you  see  what 
has  come  of  it.  That  tramp  returned  and  half 
murdered  her  with  fright.  I  hope  she  has  learned 
her  lesson." 

"But,  mamma,  Mrs.  Wells,  said  it  was  something 
she  ate.     At  least,  she  thought  it  was." 

"Humph!"   her   mother   interrupted.     Her   tone 


292      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

made    "humph"    a    silencing    argument    to    most 
opponents. 

"Yes,  mamma.  Because,  she  said  Dr.  Wells 
himself  had  an  attack  of  indigestion,  when  he  came 
home;  and  he  hardly  ate  anything — -only  some  salad 
and  a  cheese  sandwich." 

Mrs.  Witherby  sniffed  in  a  superior  manner. 
This  was  a  subject  on  which  she  had  opinions. 

"My  dear.  The  Wellses  have  dyspepsia  on  the 
brain — as  well  as  elsewhere.  Ever  since  that  cousin 
of  Dr.  Wells,  Dr.  Mayhew  Pipp,  in  London,  dis- 
covered his  famous  cure  for  dyspepsia,  the  Wellses 
have  had  nothing  else,  and  talked  of  nothing  else. 
If  they  aren't  careful,  they'll  die  of  it,  just  like  Dr. 
Pipp  did.  I  say  that  dyspepsia  is  not  a  disease  at  all. 
It's  a  habit.  Whenever  my  mother  saw  any  of  us' 
looking  yellow,  she  made  us  stick  a  feather  down  our 
throats — and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  I  will  say, 
though,  that  I  never  tasted  worse  parsnip  wine  in 
my  life.  Such  a  slaughter  of  good  parsnips.  I  had  a 
little  salad — and  I  thought  it  tasted  very  peculiar, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  Well — if  it's  ptomaine 
poisoning,  there's  probably  very  little  hope  for 
her." 

Corinne,  who  had  only  partly  persuaded  herself 
that  there  was  nothing  in  the  tramp  theory,  found 
herself  unprepared  for  the  even  more  serious  poison 
theory. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      293 

"Oh,  mamma,  don't!"  she  wailed. 

"We  may  as  well  face  the  worst,  Corinne.  Be- 
cause, until  her  sister  can  get  back,  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  stay  here  and  oversee  things.  I  shall,  at  least. 
It'll  be  my  duty." 

Corinne  stiffened  with  fright. 

"I  wonder  whether  they've  sent  for  Mrs.  Barton," 
she  whispered. 

"I  certainly  hope  so.  Every  moment  counts  in 
ptomaine  poisoning." 

Corinne  recalled  vaguely  something  she  had  read 
once  about  bodies  turning  blue  from  poison;  she 
thought  of  beautiful  Mrs.  Mearely  turning  blue,  and 
pleaded: 

"  But,  mamma — it  may  not  be  ptomaine  poisoning. 
Mrs.  Wells  didn't  exactly  know     .     .     ." 

Her  mother  sniffed  again. 

"Mrs.  Wells  never  knows  anything^  my  dear,'* 
Feeling  Corinne's  fingers  in  her  hair  presently,  she 
snapped: 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"You  left  some  of  your  curl-papers  in.  They  look 
so  funny.     And  your  bonnet  is  crooked." 

"I  don't  stop  to  think  of  my  appearance  when  a 
friend  needs  my  help.  But  you  can  laugh  in  the 
house  of  a  dying  woman  you  pretend  to  care 
for." 

This  was  so  unjust  that  Corinne  burst  into  tears. 


294      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"She's  not  dying!  I  just  love  Mrs.  Mearely.  She 
shan't  die,"  she  cried,  between  her  sobs;  and  threw 
herself  face  downward  on  the  settee  to  weep  in 
comfort.  Her  mother  was  not  disturbed  by  the  salt 
storm,  but,  on  patting  her  hair  and  finding  one  curl- 
paper still  there,  she  became  furious. 

"Corinne!  stop  that  nonsense  and  fix  my  hair. 
What  in  the  world  are  you  crying  about?  Do  be 
cheerful.     Your  mother  has  enough  to  bear." 

Corinne,  weeping  heavily,  dragged  herself  up  from 
the  settee  and  went  to  her  parent.  She  removed 
the  last  paper  spiral  obediently  and  straightened  the 
little  turban,  which  had  been  sitting  on  its  wearer's 
head  at  an  impossible  angle.  Mrs.  Witherby,  mean- 
while, pursued  her  own  train  of  thought. 

"I  do  hope  she  has  made  her  will." 

"She  isn't  going  to  die!" 

"I  wonder  if  Wilton  Howard  will  inherit  much.  I 
wish,  sometimes,  we  had  made  more  of  him.  I  dare 
say  he's  not  a  bad  fellow  at  heart;  but  a  man  is  very 
easily  led  astray  by  a  silly  girl.  However,  if  he 
inherits  any  of  Rosamond's  money,  it  will  put  an 
end  to  that  nonsense." 

Corinne  was  so  shocked  by  this  allusion  to  her 
cousin's  love-afFair,  which  she  herself  felt  to  be  a 
wonderful  romance,  that  her  tears  ceased. 

"You  mean  Mabel.?  Why,  Mamma!  I  should 
think,  if  Mr.  Howard  ever  gets  any  money,  he'd  want 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      295 

to  marry  Mabel.  Tm  sure  Mabel  loves  him  terribly. 
I  always  wish  she'd  tell  me  about  it.  But  she  never 
does."     She  sighed. 

Mrs.  Witherby,  furious  at  this  sentimentality, 
slapped  her  daughter. 

"Corinne!  be  quiet!  Do  you  suppose  I  could 
afford  to  have  Mabel  leave  me  and  marry?  I  need 
her.  Who'd  do  the  marketing  and  the  errands,  and 
see  to  your  clothes  ?  After  my  giving  her  a  home,  too. 
I  hope  she  wouldn't  be  so  selfish  and  ungrateful. 
Besides  she  wouldn't  be  a  suitable  match  at  all  for  a 
man  with  money.  If  Mr.  Howard  does  inherit  any 
of  Rosamond's  money,  he  will  be  obliged  to  make  a 
fitdng  marriage.  It  will  be  his  duty  to  all  of  us. 
Roseborough  will  expect  it.  Oh,  you  make  me  furi- 
ous! You'd  give  Mabel  everything  you  own,  or 
that  you  might  own,  if  your  mother  didn't  watch 
you." 

Subdued  by  her  mother's  hand  and  her  torrents  of 
talk,  Corinne  whispered : 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  upstairs?  Do  you  think  he 
could  have  got  here  before  we  did  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  hadn't  heard  anything  about 
it  till  I  telephoned  him.  He  has  farther  to  come." 
Then  she  added — to  herself,  rather  than  to  the 
daughter  who  seemed  to  have  so  little  natural  instinct 
for  the  main  chance — "I  wonder  if  he  knows  what 
she  has  left  him  in  her  will?     Villa  Rose,  of  course. 


296      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

Well,  IVe  always  wanted  to  take  hold  of  this  room 
and  make  it     .     .     ." 

"Mamma!  I  hear  wheels!  It  must  be  Mr. 
Howard." 

Mrs.  Witherby  rose  importantly  and  went  to 
meet  Howard,  who  came  in  swiftly,  looking  about  him 
in  apprehension. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Howard,"  she  said,  emotionally, 
taking  his  hand  in  both  hers,  "this  is  terribly  sad  for 
you." 

"How  is  she?"  he  queried,  in  a  sick-room  whisper. 
She  patted  his  hand. 

"You  must  prepare  yourself — we  must  all  prepare 
ourselves.  My  dear,  sensitive,  tender-hearted  Co- 
rinne  is  beside  herself." 

Corinne,  feeling  better  now  that  her  mother  had 
discontinued  her  theories  and  prophecies,  said  cheer- 
fully: 

"We  don't  know  anything.  We  haven't  seen  any- 
body yet.  We've  only  just  come.  We  hope  it's  all 
right." 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  annoyed. 

"Corinne!  how  you  interrupt!  Oh,  I  fear  it  is 
very  serious,  Mr.  Howard.  The  doctor  is  still  with 
her.  But  of  course,  we  hope  .  .  ."  She  broke 
off  and  murmured  sentimentally:  "Ah  well,  we 
always  hope — ^we  always  hope." 

Howard's  tone  reflected  hers. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      297 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  can't  understand  it.  Rosamond 
has  always  been  the  embodiment  of  health.  For  her 
to  be  struck  down  suddenly  in  this  way     .     .     ." 

"Dreadful!  But  rely  on  me,  Mr.  Howard.  I 
shall  remain  here  and  take  charge  of  things,  till  her 
sister  arrives." 

"Mrs.  Barton  has  been  sent  for.^"  he  asked, 
quickly. 

"We  suppose  so.  But,  in  the  excitement,  it  is 
possible  no  one  has  thought  of  it." 

He  appeared  to  think  rapidly. 

"It  should  be  done  at  once.  I  hardly  know  how. 
It  will  have  to  be  by  telegraph  in  some  way — because 
Mrs.  Barton's  mother  has  no  telephone.  Of  course 
old  Ruggle,  of  the  telegraph  office,  is  in  bed,  and  the 
office  closed.  The  office  in  Poplars  Vale  will  be 
closed  too  .  .  ."  He  mused  awhile.  "Someone 
will  have  to  get  Ruggle  up,  and  make  him  telegraph 
to  the  station  agent  at  Trenton  Waters,  to  send  a 
man  over  to  Poplars  Vale,  on  horseback.  Whom  can 
we  ask  to  wake  Ruggle?" 

"Oh,  Mabel  will  go!"  Corinne  said.  "She'll  be 
sitting  up  all  dressed.  She  wanted  to  come,  but 
Mamma  wouldn't  let  her."  She  ran  to  the  door  of 
the  anteroom,  where  was  the  instrument  which 
afflicted  His  Friggets.  "I'll  'phone  her."  She 
closed  the  door,  so  that  the  bell  should  not  be  heard. 

"If  Mrs.  Lee  had  a  telephone,  I'd  have  had  her 


298      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

here  by  now.  But  Fm  certainly  not  going  all  that 
dark  way  to  the  cottage,"  Mrs.  Witherby  remarked, 
seating  herself  again.  Howard  had  followed  Corinne 
to  the  door  to  impress  on  her  the  details  of  the  mes- 
sage she  was  to  telephone.  In  returning,  he  arrived 
at  the  large  table  and,  almost  immediately,  discovered 
the  supper-tray. 

"I  see  you  have  had  something  to  eat,"  he  said. 
**That  was  wise.     You'll  need  all  your  strength." 

Mrs.  Witherby,  in  great  excitement,  joined  him  at 
the  table. 

"No!     I  haven't.     I  wonder  who  has  been  eating? 
Two  persons  evidently.     How  odd!" 
After  a  pause,  Howard  suggested: 
"The  doctor  and  the  nurse,  perhaps." 
"Well!     It  seems  queer  for  Dr.  Wells  to  sit  down 
calmly   and   eat,   when   poor   Rosamond   is   dying! 
Still,  as  I  always  say,  it  is  amazing  how  much  those 
dyspeptic  people  can  eat,  when  there's  no  one  by  to 
see  them  stuff." 

In  moving  the  tray,  she,  in  her  turn,  made  a  dis- 
covery; it  was  the  pistol. 

"Oh!     Look!     Oh!     what  does  it  mean?" 
"What  is  it  now,  mamma?"    Corinne  asked,  ner- 
vously, coming  in  at  the  moment.     Howard  picked 
up  the  weapon. 

"Rosamond's  pistol.     That's  strange." 
"Is  it  loaded?"  Mrs.  Witherby  asked. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      299 

"Yes,  I  expect  so.     No,  it's  not." 

"Not  loaded!" 

"No.     The  chambers  are  empty." 

She  caught  at  his  arm. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  could  have  been  attacked — 
fought  wildly  to  protect  herself — and  then  been 
overpowered?" 

"No — no"  he  answered,  not  paying  attention  to 
her,  but  trying  to  recall  whether  his  cousin  had  re- 
loaded the  pistol  before  putting  it  into  her  desk 
after  their  ride.  He  thought  she  had;  therefore, 
the  empty  chambers  puzzled  him.  Corinne  was 
walking  about,  aimlessly,  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands. 

"Ifeelasif — oh.  Til  go  crazy  if  something  .  .  ." 
She  caught  hold  of  the  big  chair,  and  instantly 
screamed,  "Look!     Look!     Blood  on  the  chair!" 

Her  mother,  with  Howard  close  after  her,  rushed 
to  the  chair. 

"Suicide!"  Mrs.  Witherby  hissed  dramatically. 
"Do  you  know  of  her  secret  sorrow?  To  think  she 
may  have  been  preparing  to  take  her  own  life  in  the 
midst  of  all  our  gayety!  Oh!  Mr.  Howard."  She 
broke  down,  emotionally,  grasping  his  shoulder  to 
weep  upon.  "Oh !  Mr.  Howard,  that  is  what  comes 
of  taking  people  out  of  their  proper  station.  Our 
dear  Rosamond  was  never  quite  one  of  us.  Her 
mother — the  butter — !     She  must  have  felt  it  her- 


300      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

self — felt  poignantly  her  inability  to  live  up  to  her 
station  among  us.     Oh  Mr.  Howard — oh — dear!'' 

Howard  freed  himself,  rather  ungently,  and  started 
toward  the  door  opening  on  the  stairs. 

"Fm  going  up  there/'  he  said. 

"Too  late!"  she  cried,  throwing  her  hands  up  over 
her  head.     "  She's  killed  herself  I " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  door  opened  and  Dr.  Wells  entered.     They 
rushed  at  him,  all  speaking  at  once. 

"How  is  she?"  Howard  asked. 

"Is  she  alive.?''  Corinne  quavered. 

"Is  she  dead  ?^^  her  mother  demanded. 

"There,  there,  good  people;  one  at  a  time.  Yes. 
One  at  a  time." 

"Don't  hum  and  haw!"  Mrs.  Witherby  shrieked 
at  him. 

"Is  the  wound  fatal?"  Howard  asked,  more  de- 
finitely this  time. 

"Fatal?  Oh  dear  me,  no.  Oh  no,  certainly  not. 
Only  a  flesh-wound.     A  mere  trifle." 

"A  trifle?"  Mrs.  Witherby  could  not  believe  her 
ears. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  Howard  was  trying  to  has- 
ten the  explanation  by  keeping  rigidly  to  the  point. 

"Well — er — as  nearly  as  I  can  make  out — er — 
the  constable — yes,  it  was  the  constable — mistook 
Mr. — er — the  man  for  a  tramp,  and  immediately 
fired." 

"And  nearly  killed  Mrs.  Mearely?"  Corinne's 
impatience  broke  bounds. 

301 


302      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Eh?  What?"  The  doctor  had  removed  his 
horn-rimmed  glasses  and  was  poHshing  them. 

Howard,  with  a  supreme  effort,  mastered  his  irri- 
tation. 

"The  bullet  struck  my  cousin? — how?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no.  Oh  dear,  no."  He  breathed 
on  the  lenses  and  rubbed  them  back  and  forth  through 
a  silk  handkerchief.  "Ah,  I  see.  You  also  are 
under  the  impression  that  Mrs.  Mearely  is  the  in- 
vaUd." 

"Is  she  all  right?"  Corinne  shook  his  arm. 

"Oh  quite,  quite.  Never  better  in  her  life,  the 
sweet  lady.  Quite  so.  But — er — Mr. — er — Mills. 
Yes;  Mills.     Mr.  Mills     .     .     ." 

''Who  is  Mr.  Mills?"  Mrs.  Witherby  almost 
screamed  the  question,  in  her  unendurable  exaspera- 
tion. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mills  is— er— well,  I  fear  I  can't  tell  you 
who  he  is,  because  I  don't  know.  But  his  name  is 
Mills — ^with  two  Ts.  Perhaps  you  know  him?  He 
was  travelling  along  the  road,  and  a  constable,  mis- 
taking him  for  a  tramp,  shot  at  him — er — ^just  out- 
side Mrs.  Mearely's  house.  She,  with  great  courage, 
ran  out  to  see  what  had  happened — er — had  the 
wounded  gentleman  brought  in  here  and  telephoned 
at  once  for  me." 

Mrs.  Witherby,  so  far  from  being  relieved,  was 
indignant. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      303 

"  But  Mrs.  Wells  said, "  she  began  accusingly.     .     . 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Dyspepsia.  So  we  thought — 
until  I  arrived.  But  I  must  hasten.  I  left  Mrs. 
Wells  feeling  quite  an  invalid.  Heartburn.  For- 
tunately, we  have  a  perfect  cure  for  it.  Our  cousin. 
Dr.  Mayhew  Pipp's,  remedy.  You  know,  the  poor 
fellow  discovered  an  infallible  cure  a  few  years  before 
he  died  of  the  disease.  Very  sad.  No  doubt  he 
would  have  been  knighted,  had  he  lived.  We  feel 
very  secure  as  long  as  we  have  cousin  Mayhew 
Pipp's  May-Piplets." 

He  swallowed  a  small  pink  pellet  from  a  phial, 
snapped  his  bag  to,  and  hurried  out,  saying  "good- 
night" over  his  shoulder. 

The  three,  looking  blankly  at  one  another,  heard 
the  trap  drive  away.  Mrs.  Witherby  dropped  into 
the  big  chair. 

"Well!  of  all  things!"  she. said.  "What  time  is 
it.?" 

"Fm  so  relieved  and  happy  I  could  shout!''  Co- 
rinne  exclaimed,  laughing  and  crying  a  little  at  the 
same  time. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Howard  agreed;  "I  cannot  be 
thankful  enough  for  poor  Rosamond's  safety." 

Mrs.  Witherby  gave  him  an  acid  look,  and  sniffed. 

"Yes!  I  dare  say  your  gratitude  is  deep,  Mr. 
Howard.  As  for  me,  I  don't  appreciate  being 
dragged  out  of  bed  at  three  in  the  morning,  and 


304      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

frightened  out  of  my  senses,  for  any  Mr.  Mills  I 
never  saw  in  all  my  life." 

"Tm  sure  the  realization  of  your  purely  disin- 
terested intention  must  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
your  beauty-sleep,  Mrs.  Witherby."  His  manner 
was  courteous,  even  courtly;  yet,  in  some  subtle  way, 
he  succeeded  in  implying  that  she  was  a  meddler. 
She  bristled. 

"As  I  am  not  a  relative  of  Mrs.  Mearely's,  I 
think  my  disinterestedness  may  be  taken  for  granted, 
Mr.  Howard.  The  sad  occasion  would  not  have 
benefited  me." 

Corinne,  anxious  to  ward  off  strife,  said  hastily: 

"Hadn't  we  better  go,  mamma?  Mrs.  Mearely 
won't  need  you  to  take  charge  of  things  now." 

This  fact,  alas,  was  not  soothing  to  a  lady  with 
Mrs.  Witherby's  passion  for  taking  charge  of  things. 
She  snapped: 

"I  know  that  without  your  telling  me.  Where  on 
earth  did  you  learn  to  be  such  a  busybody?  Of 
course,  now  I'm  here,  I  shall  wait  to  see  Mrs.  Mearely." 

There  was  a  short,  uncomfortable  silence,  w^hile 
she  twisted  about  and  tossed  her  head,  smiled  dis- 
agreeably and  very  knowingly,  and  tapped  her 
fingers  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Her  motions  pres- 
ently focussed  the  gaze  of  the  other  two  upon  her 
with  a  sort  of  fascination.  She  turned,  sharply, 
on  Howard: 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      305 

"Mr.  Howard,  do  you  believe  that  story  about  the 
constable?" 

"Believe  it?"  in  surprise.  "Certainly — er — why 
not?" 

"Does  it  explain  the  empty  pistol  I  found  on  the 
table?" 

He  considered  briefly. 

"No — o.  But  very  possibly  it  needs  no  explana- 
tion. Rosamond  may  have  drawn  the  charges 
herself." 

"Oh,  mamma,  please  don't  invent  any  more  horrors 
to-night.  I — I — ^just  can't  stand  it."  Corinne's 
voice  indicated  that  she  had  borne  too  much.  She 
was  smothering  an  hysterical  desire  to  cry. 

"Corinne!"  angrily. 

"First,  Mrs.  Mearely  had  a  terrible  fright;  then 
she  had  ptomaine  poisoning;  next  she  had  been  nearly 
murdered;  and  the  last  thing  was  she  had  shot  her- 
self!" 

"Well!  everything  pointed  .  .  ."  her  mother 
commenced,  indignantly. 

Corinne's  last  vestige  of  control  flew  from  her. 
She  waved  her  hands  about,  in  a  very  fair  imitation 
of  her  mother's  favourite  emotional  gesticulations, 
and  cried: 

"No,  it  didn't!  it  didn't!  But  when  you  don't 
know  anything,  you  always  have  to  make  up  things^ 
And  half  the  time  you're  all  wrong.     I  wish  you'd 


3o6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

come  home  now.  Next,  you'll  be  saying  she  shot 
him  !  " 

"Ah  ha!"  Mrs.  Witherby  was  triumphant.  **It 
does  look  like  it,  doesn't  it  '^.  And  I  intend  to  remain 
here  until  I  find  out  why  she  shot  him — this  Mr. 
Mills  " 

Corinne  gave  a  little  moan  and  burst  into  tears. 
Howard  rose  abruptly  and  went  to  the  verandah. 
He  almost  collided  with  Constable  Marks,  who 
pushed  him  aside  and  marched  indoors. 

'*Here!  What  are  you  doing?"  Howard  asked 
the  intruder,  severely,  and  gripped  him  by  the  coat. 

**'Ands  orf!"  Mr.  Marks  exhibited  his  badge 
**Horfcer  of  the  law." 

**What  is  your  business  here?" 

**Hi  came  about  the  shoofer  as  was  shot." 

"How  do  you  know  the  man  was  shot?"  Mrs. 
Witherby  wanted  to  know. 

Constable  Marks  looked  at  her,  as  a  brilliant  in- 
tellect may  regard  a  sample  of  crass  stupidity. 

"Who'd  know  better,  Hi'd  Hke  to  know,  than  me 
wot  shot  'im?     But  Hi  didn't  get  'is  nyme." 

"His  name  is  Mills,"  Howard  supplied. 

Mr.  Marks  brought  out  his  tablet,  wetted  his 
purple  pencil,  and  wrote  the  name  as  he  conceived 
it. 

"Mills— with  two  hells?" 

"Two  hells— I  mean,  I's!  I's!"  Mrs.  Witherby  was 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      307 

out  of  patience.     "How  else  on  earth  would  you 
spell  it?" 

Howard,  with  an  authoritative  gesture,  restrained 
her. 

"Two  Ts.  I  can't  tell  you  anything  more  about 
him.  He  is  a  complete  stranger  to  Mrs.  Mearely 
and  to  all  of  us.  I  must  say,  officer,  that  you  have 
made  a  lot  of  trouble  for  Mrs.  Mearely  and  all  of  us, 
by  your  reckless  shooting — firing  at  a  gentleman,  who 
was  riding  peaceably  along  the  road!" 

Mr.  Marks  looked  up  from  his  note  book  and  stared* 
at  Howard  in  stupefaction. 

"Wot  d'yer  say?  Gentleman  ridin'  peaceable 
halong  the  road.  Hi  likes  to  know  hif  you  calls 
that  peaceable — a-jumpin*  on  my  'ead." 

** Jumping  on?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Hi  mean  jumpin  hon  my  ' ead — ikaC s  wot  Hi 
mean.  Dived  hofF  the  porch  railin'  right  on  to  my 
'ead!  at  two-forty-five  in  the  mornin',  too.  No 
wonder  Hi  takes  'im  for  a  'ousebreaker." 

Mrs.  Witherby's  eyes  glittered.  She  closed  in  and 
plucked  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"Jumped  off  the  railing,  you  say  ?     What  railing  ? " 

He  withdrew  the  raiment  of  the  law  from  her 
desecrating  touch,  and  replied,  witheringly. 

"  That  railin'.  Hi  don't  see  no  hother — hunless  you 
think  Hi  means  the  pearl  an'  goldin'  railin's  of 
'eaven! — ivich  Hi  dont!    The  lady  comes  runnin' 


3o8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

hout,  an'  we  brings  'im  in  'ere.  An'  'e  turns  hout 
to  be  the  shoofer  wot's  jest  got  \)me,  an'  was  'avin' 
'is  bite." 

He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  supper-tray. 

"Chauffeur,"  Howard  repeated.  "What  made 
you  think  he  was  the  chauffeur.?" 

"Say!  Hi'm  gettin'  provoked  with  you!  'Ow 
do  Hi  know  'e's  the  shoofer.''  Cos  'e  says  so!  An' 
she  says  so!  An'  Hi  makes  my  excuses  an'  takes  'er 
nyme  but  forgets  to  take  'is  nyme.  An'  that's  w'y 
the  chief  sends  me  back  'ere — if  you  wants  to  know. 
Hit's  always  reg'lar  to  get  the  nyme  of  a  shot  party. 
Tain't  hoften  Hi  shoots  a  man.  Wen  Hi  do,  they 
likes  to  'ave  'is  hidentity."  He  touched  his  hat. 
"Halfred  Marks  is  my  hidentity." 

"But  Mrs.  Mearely  hasnt  any  chauffeur.  What 
else     .     .     .      ?" 

Howard  stopped  her  firmly. 

"Mrs.  Witherby,  this  is  not  the  time  for — that  is 
to  say,  the  constable  has  made  a  stupid  mistake. 
Er — constable,  you  have  made  an  error.  The  man's 
name  is  Mills,  and  he  is  an  entire  stranger  to  all  of 
us.     You  will  please  report  that  to  your  chief." 

Mr.  Marks  set  his  jaw  obstinately. 

"Jest  as  you  say.  But  w'en  hentire  strangers  takes  to 
divin'  hoff  porch  railin's — at  that  time  o'  night! — hall 
Hi  feel  Hi  can  say  his :  hit  may  be  the  carefree,  heasy 
manners  of  the  rich,  but  it  haint  pretty  he'aviour!" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      309 

Howard  guided  him  out,  with  slight  but  positive 
shoves. 

"That  will  do,  officer.  Fve  given  you  the  facts. 
Make  your  report  in  accordance  with  them." 

"Hall  right,  sir,''  ofFendedly.  On  the  porch  he 
paused  to  find  out  the  hour.  Ere  replacing  the 
watch  in  his  pocket  he  waved  it  on  its  cherry  loop 
before  Howard's  eyes. 

"Hi  see  you're  hadmirin'  o'  this,"  he  began. 

"Not  at  all,"  curtly.  Howard  turned  his  back. 
Constable  Marks  gave  every  sign  of  a  sensitive  man 
under  acute  insult. 

"Ho,  very  well!''  he  said  at  last,  with  great  dig- 
nity, not  unmixed  with  contempt.  "There's  some 
as  will  be  'aughty  to  their  gryve."  With  this 
crushing  rebuke  he  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  sombre  silence  in  which  the  constable  de- 
parted endured  for  some  time.  Mr.  Howard 
folded  his  arms  and  stared  at  the  cornice.  Mrs.  With- 
erby  gleamed  upon  him,  in  a  mocking  triumph  which 
he  affected  neither  to  see  nor  to  comprehend  the 
reason  for. 

"Well,  Mr.  Howard,"  she  said  presently,  being  no 
longer  able  to  contain  herself,  "the  plot  thickens." 

Howard  coughed,  artificially  it  must  be  admitted. 

"Er — the  fellow's  statement — er  .  .  ."  he 
sought  to  waive  it  with  a  waving  hand. 

"I  am  very  sorry  that  I  brought  Corinne.     But 
how  could  I  imagine  such  a  thing  of  Mrs.  Mearely?" 

At  this  there  was  another  wail  from  Corinne,  who 
was  in  the  dark  concerning  the  cause  of  this  strained 
situation.  To  her  young  mind,  the  constable's  tale 
brought  no  black  suspicions. 

"  Oh,  mamma !     Are  you  going  to  invent  something 

"Corinne,  be  silent.  You  shall  come  home  with 
me  at  once." 

Howard  saw  that  something  definite  must  be  done 
immediately.     After  all,  he  said  to  himself,  he  was  the 

310 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      311 

deceased  husband's  kinsman  and,  in  an  emergency 
like  this,  his  should  be  the  voice  of  authority  in  Villa 
Rose.  No  master  at  Villa  Rose — there  was  the  whole 
trouble. 

"Mrs.  Witherby,  kindly  listen  to  me.  You  are 
jumping  to — er — conclusions  hastily  and  with  in- 
sufficient grounds.  This  apparent — tangle — is  due 
to  stupidity,  of  course.  It  will  be  cleared  up.  The 
important  thing  is,  that  this  absurd  story  should 
not  be  repeated  outside  this  house." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  simulated  amazement 
at  his  implied  charge. 

"Of  course  /  shall  say  nothing.  I  hope  gossip  is 
the  last  thing  I  shall  ever  be  guilty  of.  But  such  things 
reveal  themselves,  Mr.  Howard.'' 

He  tried  another  tack. 

"You  will  please  consider  Mrs.  Mearely's  standing 
in  the  community.  Any  aspersions  cast  on  her  will 
ultimately  reflect  on  you  and  on  all  her  friends." 

This  was  a  new  view  to  her.  Did  she  really  wish 
to  lead  a  boycott  against  Villa  Rose?  She  calculated 
swiftly. 

"We  must  prevent  that  at  all  hazards,"  she  decided. 

"We  ought  to  wire  to  her  sister  not  to  come," 
Corinne  suggested.     "Mrs.  Mearely  is  not  sick." 

"No  indeed!  It  is  more  necessary  than  ever  that 
she  should  come  at  once.  Until  she  arrives,  /  will 
stay  here — in  a  position  of  authority — then  nothing 


312      ''GOOD-MORNING,  RQSAMOND!'' 

can  possibly  be  said.  I  shall  go  home  now  and 
gather  up  such  things  as  I  may  need  for  my  brief 
visit,  and  return  immediately.  Corinne,  of  course, 
will  remain  at  home.'* 

Howard  bowed  formally. 

"I  shall  appreciate  it.     So  will  Rosamond." 

Corinne's  face  had  gone  glum  at  the  prospect  of 
being  left  at  home. 

"Mamma!"  she  protested,  "/  want  to  be  in  it, 
too." 

"Come,  Corinne,"  solemnly,  "and  don't  argue.' 

"I  will  remain  to  get  the — er — real  facts  from 
Rosamond,"  Howard  said  pointedly.     She  nodded. 

"Of  course.  I'm  sure  you'll  hit  upon  some  ex- 
planation that  will  do.  You're  so  intelligent. 
And  /  shall  stand  by  you.     Depend  on  me." 

"Mamma,  mamma,  zvhy  must  I  remain  at  home.?" 
Corinne's  voice  could  be  heard,  still  protesting,  as 
the  two  women  disappeared.  After  waiting  till 
he  heard  them  drive  off,  he  walked  resolutely  to  the 
stairway  door  and  rapped  on  it  smartly.  He  repeated 
the  raps  until  a  voice  answered  him,  joyfully. 

"Yes.     In  a  moment.  Prince  Run-Away." 

Howard  left  the  door  open  and  returned  to  his 
former  position.  From  the  centre  of  the  room,  with 
one  hand  resting  on  the  solid  antique  table,  and  the 
portrait  of  Hibbert  Mearely  behind  him,  he  felt  that 
he  should  be  able  to  dominate  the  situation.     He 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      313 

glanced  at  the  painting  and  his  own  lip  curled  thinly. 
How  he  had  secretly  hated  that  old  man,  while 
openly  doing  him  homage!  Because  of  the  trivial 
legacy,  how  he  hated  him  still! 

"You  would  marry  a  farmer's  daughter!"  he 
thought.  "Well,  blood  will  tell.  How  the  disgrace 
would  have  stung  you !  IVe  no  love  for  you,  you  cal- 
lous old  skinflint,  but  Tm  a  Mearely;  and  FU  save  the 
family  honour  from  being  smeared  by  buttery  fingers.'* 

"Wilton!"  Mrs.  Mearely  was  astounded  at  the 
sight  of  him.  She  hesitated  an  instant  on  the  thres- 
hold, staring  at  him;  then,  closing  the  door,  came 
swiftly  toward  him. 

"What  is  it?     Why  are  you  here?" 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  His  gaze  dwelt 
on  her,  noting  the  fact  that  she  still  wore  her  rose-and- 
silver  gown.  Before  he  spoke  she  had  discerned  the 
change  in  him.  In  manner  he  was  a  replica  of  Hib- 
bert  Mearely. 

"Sit  down,  please."  He  waited  for  her  to  do  so. 
"I  have  something  to  say;  and  it  must  be  said  quickly 
before  Mrs.  Witherby  returns. 

"Mrs.  Witherby.? — returns?"  she  repeated  me- 
chanically. 

"Please  hear  me  out.  It  appears  that  a  man  has 
been  shot  and  brought  in  here.  You  sent  for  the 
doctor,  but  omitted  to  say  why.  Mrs.  Wells  sup- 
posed that  you  were  seriously  ill.     Knowing  that 


314      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

you  were  alone,  she  telephoned  Mrs.  Witherby,  ask- 
ing her  to  come  to  you.  Mrs.  Witherby,  in  her  turn, 
called  me  up,  and  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could.  I 
may  add,  she  has  also  wired  for  your  sister." 

She  gasped. 

** Wilton!  What  an  absurd — what  an  impertinent 
thing  to  do!" 

He  motioned  for  silence. 

"While  we  were  waiting  we  found  your  pistol, 
then,  blood-stains  on  that  chair — ^which  are  now 
explained  of  course;  then — those  dishes — plates  for 
two — which  are  not  yet  explained.  Wait,  if  you 
please.  Dr.  Wells  informed  us  that  a  Mr.  Mills  had 
been  shot,  accidentally,  by  a  constable,  as  he  was 
riding  along  the  road     .     .     ." 

"Well,  surely  that  is  sufficient  explanation,"  she 
interrupted  haughtily,  recovering  herself.  His  lids 
narrowed,  and  his  speech  became  more  incisive  and 
more  familiar,  without  the  usual  tinge  of  respect  and 
kinship  that,  until  now,  had  coloured  his  accents  in 
converse  with  her. 

"It  would  be,  my  dear  cousin,  but  for  the  entrance 
of  the  constable,  who  gives  quite  a  different  version 
of  the  affair." 

This  last  piece  of  information  took  her  off  her 
guard  completely.     She  flattened  perceptibly. 

"The  constable!     He  came  back.?     Oh  dear — oh 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      315 

Howard  thought  she  was  carrying  the  affair  off 
very  clumsily — quite  like  a  butter-girl,  without 
hereditary  finesse. 

"He  came  back — and  recited,  for  Mrs.  Witherby's 
benefit,  how  he  had  seen  the  man  on  your  verandah 
and  fired;  how  you  had  run  out  and  brought  him  in 
here  and  told  this  same  constable  that  the  man  was 
your  chauffeur.  This  was  plainly — er — an — evasion, 
as  you  have  no  automobile.  The  Mr.  Mills  story 
does  not  explain  the  presence  of  the  man  on  your 
verandah,  at  that  hour  of  the  morning;  nor  the  supper 
for  two;  nor  the  fact  that  you  are  still  in  the  gown 
you  wore  last  evening,  and  therefore  did  not  retire 
immediately  after  we  all  took  leave,  although  you 
complained  of  fatigue  and  hurried  me  away  on  that 
account."  He  paused  to  let  these  points  sink  in. 
Rosamond  began  to  realize  that  matters  were  serious 
for  her,  but  more  so  for  the  prince,  who  was  now  in 
double  danger  of  discovery. 

"With  Roseborough  within,  and  the  Woodse-all- 
the-rest-of-it  secret  service  outside  Villa  Rose,  how 
can  I  save  him  from  arrest.?"  her  anxious  thought 
ran.  Howard,  knowing  naught  of  His  Highness  and 
his  vagabond  joys,  saw  that  he  had  made  a  profound 
impression  and  he  hastened  to  follow  up  his  ad- 
vantage. 

"Now,  I  think  I  need  not  impress  upon  you,  the 
necessity  of  finding  some  explanation  to  cover  all 


3i6      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

these  points  before  Mrs.  Witherby  returns,  or  she 
will  spread  a  scandal  that  will  ruin  you.  You  know 
her  as  well  as  I  do." 

She  looked  at  him,  growing  consternation  in  her 
face. 

"What  can  I  do.?  His  identity  must  be  kept  a 
secret  at  any  cost.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  sensa- 
tion— the  upheaval     .     .     .     !" 

Howard  avoided  her  pleading  eyes,  with  painful 
delicacy. 

"  Indeed  .f*  He  is  well  known  among  us,  then.f'  a 
man  of  position  in  Roseborough  .f*  Married,  I  pre- 
sume, or  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  this  clan- 
destine    .     .     ." 

Slowly  she  rose,  staring  at  him,  horrified.  Until 
that  moment,  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  only 
Mrs.  Witherby  interpreted  the  prince's  midnight 
advent  as  a  scandal.  She  had  supposed  that  How- 
ard's whole  concern  was  to  prevent  the  Roseborough 
gossip  from  misinterpreting  an  occurrence  which  he, 
as  well  as  his  cousin's  widow,  knew  to  be  innocent. 
By  a  word  he  had  awakened  her,  and  she  realized 
that  he,  too,  put  the  worst  construction  on  the  affair. 

** Wilton!  you  can't  mean  that  you — that  you  who 
know  me  .  .  .  !  What  are  you  thinking  of  me?" 
she  demanded  passionately. 

He  was  unmoved  by  this  outburst,  which  he  had 
expected  at  an  earlier  stage  of  their  interview;  women 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      317 

always  cried  "insult,"  when  caught.  He  replied, 
coldly,  avoiding  her  eyes,  and  picking  his  words  with 
the  care  and  delicate  innuendo  of  a  gentleman  un- 
fortunately compelled  to  discuss  unseemly  matters 
with  a  beautiful  but  obtuse  young  woman  from  the 
peasant  sphere: 

"I  hope  you  will  absolve  me  from  trying  to  pry 
into  your  secrets  from  any  personal  motives.  My 
sole  aim  is  to  protect  your  reputation,  as  far  as 
possible  after  this  indiscretion.  The  prominence  of 
your  position  in  Roseborough  makes  it  doubly  my 
duty — not  only  for  your  sake,  but  for  the  community. 
I  can  understand  that  a  girl — young  and  beautiful 
but  not  rich — might  have  a  friend — some  childhood's 
sweetheart — who  still  retained  her  affection,  even 
after  she  had  married  prosperously  and  above  her 
own  station.  I  can  understand  that,  once  having 
been  lifted  to  a  position  of  importance,  she  might  well 
hesitate  to  lose  that  elevation  by  marrying  the  early 
sweetheart,  who  has  probably  remained  in  his  humble 
sphere — and  yet,  might  yield  to  her  affection  for  this 
individual.  All  that  is  natural.  The  thing  I  de- 
plore is,  that  you  should  have  been  so  thoughtless  as 
to  send  for  Dr.  Wells.  Mrs.  Wells  and  Mrs.  Wither- 
by,  between  them,  have  notified  everyone  who 
possesses  a  telephone.  And,  in  addition,  we  have 
the  damning  fact  to  get  over,  of  one  story  about  the 
gentleman's  identity  told  to  the  doctor  and  another 


3i8      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

told  to  the  constable.  Your  friends  naturally  de- 
mand a  convincing  explanation  of  a  very  compromis- 
ing situadon." 

She  strode  toward  him,  as  if  she  would  have  en- 
joyed walking  over  him  and  stamping  on  him,  and 
almost  shouted  her  repudiation  of  the  whole  hideous 
suggestion. 

**0h!  this  is  an  outrage!  /  never  saw  this  man  he- 
fore  in  all  my  life  !'' 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  in  astonishment.  He  had 
thought  himself  prepared  for  any  and  all  excuses,  but 
the  novelty  of  this  one  took  him  by  surprise. 

"Oh!  Is  this  what  you  think  of  me  in  Rose- 
borough  ?  But,  you'll  be  punished  for  it — all  of  you 
— when  the  truth  is  known.  You — you — oh !  Well, 
ril  tell  you  nothing.  There!  I  never  saw  the  man 
before.  He  came  in  here,  like  a  tramp,  and  I  fed  him. 
I  couldn't  tell  that  to  Dr.  Wells,  or  to  the  constable, 
could  I  ?     They  wouldn't  have  believed  it  !" 

"Exactly,"  he  answered,  dryly.  "And  who  else 
will  believe  it?  No  one.  I  regret  that  my  offer  of 
assistance  has  not  been  met  with  sincerity." 

"You  can  all  think  what  you  please,"  furiously. 
"I  will  not  sacrifice  him.  Til  tell  you  nothing.  He 
entered  my  house  like  a  tramp.  I  had  never  seen 
him  before." 

Mr.  Howard  felt  justified  in  becoming  seriously 
angry. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      319 

"You  can  hardly  complain  if  I  refuse  to  allow  you 
to  sacrifice  your  honour,  and  my  cousin's  name,  and 
the  feelings  of  Roseborough,  for  a  man  you  yourself 
say  you  never  saw  before  to-night!"  he  asserted, 
dictatorially. 

She  stamped  her  foot. 

"Fll  tell  you  nothing  of  him!  He  shall  not  be  dis- 
covered, and  dragged  back  to  his  prison.  He  shall 
be  free." 

Howard  started.  Prison,  did  she  say?  Some 
poaching  "rough"  from  Poplars  Vale,  perhaps? 
This  threatened  to  be  a  scandal  indeed,  unless  he 
crushed  it  under  an  iron  heel. 

"Prison.  Ah.  Very  well.  Now  I  think  I  under- 
stand this  matter." 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  anteroom. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  in  new 
alarm.  He  gave  her  a  stern  look  under  gathered 
brows. 

"I  am  going  to  telephone  to  the  police,  and  give 
this  fellow  in  charge  as  a  common  housebreaker.  If 
he  has  been  in  prison  before,  let  him  have  another 
taste  of  it." 

"Wilton!"  In  the  shock  of  this  move  she  was 
wordless. 

"With  the  man  in  gaol,  your  story  may  be  be- 
lieved." He  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  ran 
to  it  and  listened.     He  was  having  the  usual  mid- 


320      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

night  trouble  in  waking  Central.  There  was  only- 
one  thing  to  do;  she  must  get  the  prince  out  of  the 
house  before  stupid,  gossiping  Roseborough  forced 
him  either  to  declare  his  identity  or  go  to  gaol!  If 
he  revealed  his  name  here,  he  could  no  longer  mas- 
querade as  a  vagabond  and  roam  the  world  at  will. 
He  would  be  forced  back  to  his  palatial  prison  in 
Woodseweedsetisky.  It  was  still  dark  outside. 
There  was  a  bare  chance  that  he  might  elude  the 
black-whiskered  secret  service,  if  he  could  only  slip 
out  of  the  house  undetected. 

Central  still  refused  to  answer. 

"Oh,  sleep,  sleep,  Maria  Potts!"  she  invoked. 
She  ran  halfway  up  the  stairs,  calling  softly,  "Prince 
Run-away." 

"What  is  it.  Madam  Make-Believe?"  She  caught 
his  hand  in  hers  and  made  him  run  down  the  stairs, 
chattering  confusedly  to  him  the  while. 

"You  must  get  away,  for  both  our  sakes.  There 
isn't  time  to  explain." 

"I  don't  understand.  Has  anything  occurred 
to     .     .     .      ?" 

"No  time  to  tell  you.  Things  have  happened. 
Oh !  how  things  have  happened  1  You  must  go — go — 
and  be  free." 

"All  right,  ril  *go— go— and  be  free;'  but  Til 
come  back  to-morrow  and  hear  all  about  it." 

Together  they  tiptoed  rapidly  to  the  porch — and 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      321 

almost  collapsed  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  Constable 
Alfred  Marks. 

"No,  you  don't,  me  'earty!"  said  the  Law.  "Hi 
wants  Hm"  he  said  to  Rosamond,  jerking  his  thumb 
at  the  prince.  "The  Chief  don't  feel  contented-Hke 
with  this  affair.  There's  too  many  stories  habout 
'im  wot  don't  hagree.  So  'e  sends  me  back  'ere 
to  take  charge  of  'im,  and  to  make  a  hinvestigation 
all  official  and  reg'lar." 

"/'//  answer  any  questions,"  she  pleaded  desper- 
ately, "but  this  gentleman  must  go  .  .  ."  The 
constable  silenced  her,  impressively. 

"Hi  'opes  'e  wont  make  no  more  trouble;  cos,  if 
Hi  gets  to  shootin' — wHch  Hi  would'' — he  glared  to 
enforce  this — "Hi  might  'it  some  of  your  fondest 
nicknacks."  He  pointed  his  revolver  about  at  the 
antiques  on  the  walls. 

"That  is  well,  officer."  Howard  stood  in  the 
doorway.     "The  fellow  must  remain  here." 

"But,  I'm  delighted,"  the  Incognito  asserted. 
He  addressed  Howard,  gayly.  "You  know,  this  is 
my  second  attempt  to  leave  this  house.  It's  an 
adventure!  A  house  with  four  doors  and  seven 
windows,  and  yet  I  absolutely  can't  get  out  of  it!" 

It  was  plain  to  Rosamond  that,  all  unaware  of 
his  danger,  his  whimsical  nature  was  delighted  with 
the  new  and  odd  turn  his  fortunes  had  taken. 

"By  your  leave,  ma'am,"     Mr.  Marks  pulled  the 


322      ''GOOD^MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

long  bamboo  settle  across  the  open  width  of  the 
double  French  doors,  and  sat  down,  a  war-like  speck 
in  the  centre  of  it,  toying  significantly  with  his 
weapon. 

"Oh,  Your  Highness,  I  did  my  best  to  save  you!" 
Rosamond  whispered,  despairingly.  She  dropped 
into  the  nearest  chair  and  softly  wept. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IT  TRANSPIRED  that  Miss  Maria  Potts  had  not 
been  asleep,  save  possibly  for  a  few  weary  winks. 
Howard's  inability  to  reach  her  ear  was  due  not  to 
her  slumbers  but  to  the  fact  that  half  a  dozen  other 
Roseborough  citizens  were  demanding  to  be  con- 
nected with  Mrs.  Mearely's  residence.  For  the 
first  hour  of  the  doctor's  absence,  Mrs.  Wells,  muffled 
in  an  eider-down  wrapper,  and  topped  with  a  frilled 
nightcap,  had  sat  at  the  telephone  and  called  every- 
one whose  number  she  could  remember.  There 
were  several  whom  she  did  not  call,  because  Peter 
had  mislaid  the  book.  The  book  in  Mrs.  Witherby's 
home,  however,  was  not  mislaid;  and,  as  she  made 
Mabel  and  Corinne  do  all  the  packing  of  her  small 
trunk  and  her  several  bandboxes,  she  herself  had  time 
to  spend  in  notifying  the  persons  Mrs.  Wells  omitted 
that  Mrs.  Mearely  had  been  "taken  ill  and  of  course 
sent  at  once  for  me  to  come  and  oversee  things." 

So  it  was  that  Mr.  Howard  had  less  than  five  min- 
utes in  which  to  bend  his  stern,  menacing,  contemp- 
tuous gaze  on  the  interloper,  who  was  not  only  a 
poacher  in  the  emotional  realm,  but,  judging  by  his 
eccentric  attire,  was  also  something  of  the  sort  by 

323 


324      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

field  and  stream.  The  instrument  behind  him  tin- 
kled. For  the  next  hour,  indeed,  it  tinkled  inces- 
santly. Howard  ran  back  and  forth  telling  soothing 
fictions  to  first  one  and  then  another;  sometimes 
pausing  to  upbraid  the  somnolent  constable  because 
he  had  not  caught  the  gaol-bird  and  put  leg-irons  on 
him  before  ever  he  entered  Villa  Rose.  Constable 
Marks,  sleeping  and  waking  by  jerks,  mumbled 
protests.  Mrs.  Mearely  and  her  guest,  discreetly 
seated  at  opposite  sides  of  the  room,  were  unable  to 
exchange  more  than  a  whispered  word  or  two.  His 
amused  cheerfulness  stabbed  her  to  the  heart;  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  his  danger.  Straining  her  ears 
nervously,  at  times  she  believed  she  could  hear 
groans  outside — the  rumbhngs  of  Woodseweedsetis- 
ky's  secret  service,  Teodor  Carl  Peter  Lassanava- 
tiewicz,  shot  in  the  leg  by  Roseborough's  human 
watchdog.  Constable  Alfred  Marks. 

Another  tinkle  drew  Howard  from  his  chaperoning 
station,  just  within  the  doorway.  He  always  left 
the  door  open  when  the  bell  called  him  upon  these 
excursions.  The  guilty  pair  could  see  the  back  of 
his  head — and  be  reminded  that  he  had  two  ears, 
and  that  only  one  of  them  was  required  for  the 
receiver. 

The  prince  leaned  as  far  out  of  his  chair  as  he 
could,  without  falling  out,  and  whispered  across  the 
room: 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      325 

"Where  does  he  come  in?  And  why  doesn't  he 
like  me?" 

"  Ssh — ! "  She  held  on  to  the  arm  of  her  chair  and 
stretched  out  her  neck  and  alarmed  countenance,  for 
all  the  world  as  though  she  expected  to  be  guillotined 
**He's  a  relative — of  Mr.  Mearely's,  and — and — '' 
she  stopped,  and  gestured  for  silence,  thinking  that 
what  he  overheard  of  Howard's  conversation  might 
enlighten  him. 

**No,  thank  you."  Howard  was  repeating  what 
had  become  a  formula;  his  tones  were  still  unfailingly 
polite,  but  weary  and  suggestive  of  nerves  straining 
thin  under  the  surface.  "Mrs.  Mearely  is  not  ill. 
Just  a  fright.  Mrs.  Witherby  is  most  kind  and  con- 
siderate, but  it  was  really  unnecessary  to  call  you  up 
about  it.  No.  Thank  you."  He  came  to  the  door 
and  addressed  Mrs.  Mearely,  coldly,  "That  was  Mrs. 
Field.  She  says  she  has  been  trying  for  half  an  hour 
to  get  this  line.  Between  them,  I  don't  think  Mrs. 
Wells  and  Mrs.  Witherby  have  overlooked  anybody." 

Ting-a-ling-a-Zmg !  With  a  barely  suppressed 
sigh  Mr.  Howard  went  back  to  the  instrument; 
absent-mindedly,  he  closed  the  door.  This  time  it 
was  Central  herself  who  desired  speech  with  him. 

"Land  to  goodness!  Mr.  Howard,  I'm  tuckered 
out!"  she  complained,  bitterly.  "What  in  creation's 
happened  up  to  Villa  Rose,  anyhow?  Never,  in  all 
my  days  in  this  office,  have  I  heard  subscribers  ramp 


326      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

round  like  they  been  doin'  this  night.  I  ain't  had  a 
wink  of  sleep;  and  maw's  jest  come  and  stuck  a 
Dollop's  stickem  headache  plaster  on  to  the  back  of 
my  neck.  I  declare  I'm  weak  as  a  plucked  chicken. 
I  give  all  Roseborough  fair  warning,  right  now,  that 
I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stand  much  more  of  it.  Here,  hold 
on.  Don't  ring  ofF.  There's  your  party."  Anon, 
Howard  was  answering  the  same  questions  in  the 
same  wearily  courteous  manner. 

Seeing  that  the  door  was  closed  Rosamond  glanced 
at  Marks  and  knew,  by  his  rhythmic  snores,  that  he 
was  resting  peacefully.     She  whispered: 

"There  is  just  one  chance     .     .     ." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  has  happened.  Why 
are  all  these  people  here  ?    Why  are  you  so  distressed  ?" 

"Mrs.  Wells  telephoned  everybody  that  I  had 
been  taken  ill.  Then  when  Mr.  Howard  came — and 
found  you — and  the  constable — goodness  knows 
what  they  think.  They  want  to  have  you  arrested 
as  a  housebreaker." 

"How  charming!  This  is  an  adventure."  He 
looked  at  her,  keenly.  "Are  they  gossiping?  Ah — 
I  see.  Then  the  best  thing,  I  suppose,  is  to  give  up 
this  fun,  and  tell  them  who  I  am." 

Forgetting  caution  in  the  thrill  of  his  words,  she 
exclaimed  aloud: 

"Oh  Prince!  You  would  make  that  sacrifice  for 
me  .'"     His  eyes  twinkled  with  amusement. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      327 

"Yes,  dear  Madam  Make-Believe.  'Tis  no  sacri- 
fice.    Their  tongues  can't  hurt  me.'' 

She  shook  her  head.  Not  at  any  price  would  she 
sell  his  dear  liberty. 

"You  can't.  It  is  too  dangerous.  If  you  were  to 
confess  who  you  are — now — here — with  that  awful 
man  in  the  garden     .     .     ." 

He  looked  as  crestfallen  as  a  boy  whose  long-planned 
trick  deceives  no  one. 

"You  know  who  I  am  then?  You  only  pretended 
you  didn't?" 

"I  didn't  know,  at  first.  I  thought  you  were  just 
the — the  tramp — the  vagabond  you  said  you  were, 
till  that  awful  man  in  the  garden  came  and  told  me 
your  real  name." 

"An  awful  man  in  the  garden  told  you  my 
real  name?"  he  asked,  puzzled.  He,  too,  forgot 
caution  and  the  whisper.  He  rose  and  crossed  the 
room  to  her,  unaware  that  his  moving  shadow 
had  flickered  upon  the  screen  of  Constable  Marks's 
dream. 

"Yes;  a  foreign,  guttural,  blackish  man.  He  speaks 
all  sorts  of  languages.  He  says  his  name  is  Lass — 
Lass — ass — an — a — ^wiz." 

"Lassanavatiewicz?"  he  exclaimed,  in  great  aston- 
ishment. 

"Yes.     He  has  come  for  you." 

"Oh!  but  that's  ridiculous!"  he  asserted,  indig- 


328      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

nantly.  "I've  committed  no  crime.  He  has  no 
right  to  follow  me  here.     Of  all     .     .     .     V 

She  interrupted  him,  thinking  altogether  of  the 
gravity  of  his  situation  and  the  need  of  haste. 

"You  must  get  away  secretly,  if  you  can,  before 
the  light  comes — ^without  his  seeing  you.  I  can  give 
some  explanation — temporarily.  And  when  the 
truth  comes  out,  you  will  be  safely  out  of  that  man's 
reach,  and  everything  will  be  all  right  for  me.  Then 
they  will  all  look  fooHsh,  and  it  will  serve  them  right." 

She  led  him,  both  tiptoeing,  in  front  of  Constable 
Marks  toward  the  music  room. 

"  You  will  find  a  little  alcove  window  at  the  end  of 
the  music  room.     Raise  it  very  softly  and     .     .     ." 

"I  have  no  faith  in  either  your  doors  or  your  win- 
dows as  a  means  of  escape.  But  I  will  make  the 
third  and  last  attempt."  He  whispered  this  in  her 
ear,  with  a  return  of  his  natural  and  whimsical 
manner.  They  reached  the  door  and  opened  it 
with  a  faint  click,  since  their  hands  met  on  the  handle. 
They  did  not  see  the  Law  unveiling  its  eyes. 

"Will  it  make  it  better  for  you  if  I  get  away  now.f^" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes!  do  it  for  my  sake!" 

"Then  ril  go."     He  bent  toward  her. 

"Good-bye,  Prince  Run-Away."  she  said,  and 
added  wistfully,  "Oh,  will  you  ever  come  again.?" 

He  kissed  her. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      329 

"This  afternoon/*  he  answered;  and  slipped  into 
the  music  room  quickly,  lest  she  should  rebuke  him. 

"  'Alt!  'alt!"  Mr.  Alfred  Marks,  it  appeared  could 
move  suddenly  when  duty  called.  He  went  after 
the  vagabond  at  a  heavy  jog-trot,  waving  his  weapon 
in  circles  that  threatened  not  only  his  prisoner,  but 
the  lady  of  the  villa  and  the  antiques  as  well,  not  to 
mention  portions  of  Mr.  Marks's  own  anatomy. 

"Anything  to  oblige,"  the  prince  said,  politely. 

"W'ere's  the  lights  in 'ere?  If  they  ain't  on  in  a 
jifF,  Hi  shoots,  and  there's  no  tellin'  wot  Hi'll  ^it — 
mayhe  nuthin  !" 

Rosamond  ran  to  the  switch  and  turned  it.  Her 
vagabond  was  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  laughing. 

"I  suppose  there  was  a  pass-word  once,  to  get  out 
of  this  house  ? " 

"Oh!  how  can  you  joke?"     She  burst  into  tears. 

"That's  wot  Hi  say,"  the  constable  concurred. 
*'Wot's  frisky  habout  it?  A  blamed  botheration  is 
wot  you  are;  and  HiVe  'arf  a  mind  to  tell  you  so;  'arf 
a  mind  and  mebbe  a  bit  more!  Come  horf  o'  that 
there  winder-sill  and  sit  hon  the  piany-stool.  Come 
horf,  now.  Hi'll  sit  right  'ere.  Hit'U  be  heasier  to 
hoversee  yer  'ere.  Ma'am,  shut  the  door.  Not 
honly  for  syfety's  syke — 'im  bein'  such  a  slipp'ry 
customer — but  the  hearly  mornin'  hair  is  bad  for  a 
sensitive  man  like  wot  Hi  am  hin  a  draught." 

"Rosamond!"     She  heard  Howard's  voice,  with  a 


330      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''       ' 

sharpness  of  authority  in  it  that  made  her  wince. 
As  she  returned  to  the  living  room,  she  was  mutely- 
imploring  that  some  means  might  be  put  into  her 
hands  for  the  adequate  and  sufficient  punishment  of 
this  man.  She  sank  down  upon  the  settee  and  turned 
her  profile  to  him. 

"I  grieve  to  see  you  in  distress,"  he  began  very 
formally.  The  telephone  tinkled.  "Ringing  off — 
can't  be  another  connection  so  soon,"  he  muttered. 
"For  your  own  sake  you  must  corroborate  the  story 
I  shall  tell."  The  bell  rang  again,  a  longer  tinkle. 
He  frowned,  but  continued.  "I  have  been  thinking 
that  it  may  be  best" — the  bell  was  ringing  loudly 
now,  Miss  Potts  losing  her  patience  at  the  delay— 
"it  may  behest  to  tell  Mrs.  Witherby  .  .  ."  He 
surrendered  and  went  to  answer  the  call. 

Rosamond  heard  wheels  coming  up  the  gravel  road 
but  she  did  not  move.  All  hope  of  the  prince's  escape 
was  lost  now,  and  with  it  all  fear  for  herself.  She 
sat  still  and  limp,  humped  upon  the  settee,  a  sym- 
bolic figure  of  Dejection.  Howard,  having  disposed 
of  the  last  kind  inquirer  with  less  poHte  circumlocu- 
tion than  usual,  re-entered. 

"I  want  to  make  you  understand,  my  dear 
Cousin  .  .  ."  (Miss  Maria  Potts  inserted  the 
plug  again.  He  scowled,  glanced  toward  the  tele- 
phone then  endeavoured  to  continue,  regardless  of  the 
thin  but  insistent  tinkle),  "er — that  you  can  rely 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      331 

on  me,  to  any  extent.  I  am  in  no  haste  personally 
to  put  the  worst  construction  on  this  event." 

"Oh,  really?     No?"  she  hissed  at  him. 

He  hesitated,  slightly  flustered  by  her  accents  of 
scorn  and  the  angry  flashing  of  her  eyes.  He  had 
thought  of  her  as  submissive  and  ashamed,  and  pre- 
pared to  show  a  proper  gratitude  to  those  who  were 
rescuing  her  from  the  consequence  of  her  folly.  The 
bell  no  longer  tinkled.  It  pealed — in  long  and  short 
rhythm,  loudly,  without  punctuation  or  pause. 
Howard  dashed  at  the  telephone  and  began  a  counter 
ringing  to  get  Central's  ear. 

"Central.  This  is  Villa  Rose.  Mr.  Howard 
speaking.  This  incessant  ringing  is  becoming  a 
nuisance.  I  must  request  you  not  to  ring  this 
number  again  to-night,  no  matter  who  asks  for  it." 

"Oh  is  that  so?"  Miss  Potts  snapped  back  at  him. 
"I  guess  Fm  to  sit  here  forever  wrapped  round  in 
gran'maw's  crazy  quilt  off"  my  bed,  which  was  the 
first  thing  handy  when  I  had  to  grab  somethin*  to 
run  in  here  when  that  ringing  first  started  to  get  the 
doctor.  My!  land!  Nobody  into  our  rooms  has 
had  a  wink  of  sleep — maw,  nor  Susannah  nor  the 
dawg  neither — he's  been  growling  somethin'  fierce. 
I'm  going  to  switch  every  last  one  of  them  crazy 
subscribers  on  to  your  line,  when  they  asks  for  it. 
If  you  think  Maria  Potts  is  the  only  person  that's 
going  to  be  rung  up  and  pestered  you're  badly  mis- 


332      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

took.  'Twas  Villa  Rose's  line  that  started  the  ruc- 
tions that's  got  all  Roseborough  on  the  jig,  and  I 
figger  on  keepin'  you  jest  as  busy  as  subscribers  keeps 
me.  At  that,  you're  fixed  a  lot  more  comfortable 
than  I  be.  I'll  bet  you've  got  more  on  to  you  than 
a  crazy  quilt." 

"Very  well,  Central,"  harshly.  "In  that  case, 
I  shall  leave  the  receiver  off  the  hook." 

"  You  re  no  gent' man  /"  she  screamed  at  him. 

Howard  fulfilled  his  threat,  notwithstanding,  and 
returned  to  the  downcast  but  disdainful  lady  on  the 
settee. 

"I  was  about  to  say  that  we  must  offer  Mrs. 
Witherby  a  convincing  explanation — thoroughly  con- 
vincing. Therefore,  I  say,  rely  on  me  wholly  and 
corroborate  what  I  say." 

She  gave  him  a  long,  cool  glance  and  asked  con- 
temptuously: 

"What  of  another  woman's  reputation — ^which  it  is 
you  who  have  injured }     Why  not  protect  her  ?  " 

This  unexpected  counter-stroke  took  him  aback 
completely. 

"I — er — I  fail  to  apprehend  your  meaning,"  he 
stammered. 

"Oh,  people  are  always  ready  to  sneer  at  a 
girl,  when  a  man's  attentions  don't  come  to  mar- 
riage." 

He  felt  the  red  deepening  in  his  face  and  said — the 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      333 

more  awkwardly  because  he  was  trying  to  appear 
serene  and  dominant: 

"You  said  nothing  of  this  to  me  before." 

"No,"  she  answered,  reflectively.  ''Then  I  could 
have  sneered  with  the  rest.  I  was  getting  to  be  like 
them." 

Feeling  more  at  ease  immediately,  because  she  had 
abandoned  the  subject  of  Miss  Crewe  to  speak  of 
herself,  he  attempted  a  return  to  his  former  man- 
ner. 

"The  events  of  this  evening  have  unstrung  you." 

She  leaped  to  her  feet  as  if  she  were  about  to  attack 
him. 

"Unstrung!"  she  cried.  "They've  opened  my 
eyes,  and  the  thing  I  see  most  clearly  is  that  /  am 
nothing.  Yes,  nothing.  A  few  hours  ago  I  was  a 
much-flattered  hostess,  the  courted  mistress  of  this 
house,  the  woman  whose  word  was  law  in  the  fashions 
and  entertainments  of  this  community     .     .     ." 

"Dear  Rosamond,  that  is  your  position  in  Rose- 
borough." 

"Not  any  longer     .     .     ." 

Whatever  she  intended  to  say  was  forgotten  for  the 
moment  in  the  emotions  that  surged  upon  her  at  the 
spectacle  of  Thomas  Hogworthy,  Mrs.  Witherby's 
man-of-all-jobs,  with  his  employer's  trunk  on  his 
shoulders.  It  was  a  small  yellow-panelled,  tin- 
plated  trunk,  with  a  rounded  lid,  and  well  corded 


334      'GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

with  Hannah  Ann's  clothesline.  He  waited  on  the 
threshold. 

**  Good-evening,  Thomas.  Er — let  me  see  .  .  ." 
Howard  debated  whether  to  send  the  trunk  imme- 
diately to  one  of  the  guest  rooms,  then  he  thought 
it  would  please  Mrs.  Witherby  better  to  select  her 
own  chamber.  "You  had  better  put  the  trunk  in 
the  dining  room  just  now.     That  way." 

Thomas,  a  silent  man,  merely  nodded  and,  setting 
the  trunk  on  the  floor,  dragged  and  bumped  it  over 
polished  wood  and  rare  rugs  and  into  the  dining  room. 
Then,  with  a  curt  nod,  he  silently  departed. 

Rosamond's  cheeks  flamed  again  with  indignation. 

*^ You  see!  This  is  no  longer  my  house.  /  am  not 
mistress  here.  You  have  taken  authority  over  my 
life.  Against  my  orders,  you  command  the  arrest  of 
a  man  you  beheve  I  love;  Mrs.  Witherby  sends  her 
trunk  into  my  house,  without  asking  my  leave,  and 
comes  here  herself  to  stay  as  long  as  it  pleases  her — 
and  you  tell  her  old  Thomas  where  the  trunk  is  to 
go!"  Her  anger  grew  with  the  enumeration  of  her 
wrongs.  **  And  why  are  you  so  anxious  to  save  me — 
all  of  you?  For  my  sake.?  Oh  no!  Not  at  all. 
Because  of  all  this — the  money  and  the  position.  If 
it  were  Mabel  Crewe  who  had  given  food  to  a  man 
during  the  hours  and  under  the  conditions  which 
society  deems  improper,  would  some  Mrs.  Busybody's 
trunk  be  dragged  across  her  floors — or  would  you  be 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      335 

offering  all  your  fine  talents  of  invention  for  her 
protection?" 

She  had  made  him  wince  again,  and  he  was  angry; 
but,  by  an  effort,  he  controlled  himself. 

"I  have  not  denied  that  your  position  makes  it 
more  imperative     .     .     ." 

Her  rage  rose  hysterically. 

"Yes!  The  position!  The  woman  is  nothing. 
The  woman  is  just  a  human  being,  and  doesn't  count. 
Tm  the — the — axle  in  Roseborough's  wheel.  So 
you'll  keep  me  in  my  position  for  your  own  benefit. 
The  moment  I  do  something  which  is  outside  your 
rules,  you  seize  on  my  house  and  my  life  and — and — 
force  me  to  save  my  good  name — for  you — for  you  .'" 
pointing  an  accusing  forefinger  at  him.  "But  you'll 
regret  it!  Send  him  to  prison  and  see  what  comes 
of  it!  It's  wicked — wicked.  He  was  so  happy  and 
free.  And — and  .  .  ."  Hot  tears,  the  result 
of  strained  nerves  and  gusts  of  fury,  gushed  from  her 
eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  sobbed, 
"You'll  look  per — perfect  f-fools!" 

Mrs.  Witherby  now  came  into  view.  She  was 
scarcely  discernible  among  leaning  towers  of  band- 
boxes, and  carried  a  black  handbag  of  the  size  and 
shape  of  a  young  gondola.  Leaning  over  the  veran- 
dah railing  she  admonished  the  silent  Mr.  Hog- 
worthy. 

"Drive   home    quickly,    Thomas.     Miss    Corinne 


336      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

and  Miss  Mabel  are  alone.  And  do  not  forget  a 
single  one  of  my  instructions." 

**Mrs.  Witherby/*  Howard  warned. 

Mrs.  Mearely  was  past  caution. 

"She  is  your  guest,  not  mine!"  She  tossed  her 
head,  and  started  for  the  music  room.  Alarmed  and 
now  thoroughly  angry  also,  at  what  he  considered 
her  stupid  and  wilful  disregard  of  a  delicate  situation, 
he  strode  forward  to  intercept  her. 

"Control  yourself,"  he  ordered  her,  severely. 
"Control  yourself.  You  can't  afford  to  ignore  Mrs. 
Witherby.  I  certainly  would  not  advise  you  to  go 
in  there  for  a  tete-a-tete  at  this  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings." 

This  latest  caution  was  the  last  straw. 

"I  don't  care!"  she  cried,  with  rising  shrillness. 
"You — you — have  wicked  thoughts.  You're  horrid, 
horrid  people  /''  She  rushed  out,  and  slammed  the 
door  so  vigorously  that  the  antiquities  of  a  thousand 
years  rattled. 

"Well!"  Mrs.  Witherby  said,  when  she  could  get 
her  breath.  "Well!  and  what  have  you  to  say  to 
that,  Mr.  Howard.?" 

"Er — my  cousin  is  not  quite  herself — hysterical — 
er  .  .  ."  He  lapsed  into  silence.  No  one  ever 
maintained  an  argument  against  Mrs.  Witherby 's 
sniffs. 

**You  may  call  it  hysteria.     I  call  it  ingratitude — 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      337 

and  bad  manners  But,  really!  why  should  one 
expect  Rosamond  Cort,  of  Poplars  Vale,  to  have 
innate  manners  ?  (She  emphasized  ** innate  "  with  an 
inflection  all  her  own.)  Where  was  she  to  learn 
them?     From  her  mother — at  the  butter-tubs?" 

**0h  no,  Mrs.  Witherby,  I  assure  you  Rosamond 
is  most  grateful — in  fact,  I  might  say,  almost  too 
grateful.     You  mistake." 

She  put  an  end  to  his  tremulous  mumblings, 
sharply. 

"Instead  of  contradicting  me,  I'd  be  obliged  if 
you'd  relieve  me  of  my  bundles.  I've  carried  them 
all  the  way  up  the  hill.  No  one  came  to  meet  me  or 
assist  me  in  any  way." 

Bowing  nervously,  Howard  seized,  from  her  col- 
lection, one  bandbox — the  largest — and  the  hand- 
bag. 

"I  apologize  a  thousand  times.  My  cousin  was 
giving  me  a  description  of — er — the  events  that 
occurred  here  to-night.     And     .     .     ." 

"Kindly  be  careful  with  that  bandbox,"  she 
snapped. 

He  bowed  again,  smiling  foolishly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  believe  you  will  find  that  I 
have  not  injured  it  "     He  handed  it  back  to  her. 

"/  don't  want  it!  The  string  has  cut  my  fingers. 
I  carried  it  all  the  way  up  the  hill.     Set  it  down." 

"I  beg  your — set  it  down,  I  believe  you  said?" 


338      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

He  put  the  bandbox  on  the  floor,  directly  between 
them,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "As  I  was  about 
to  relate,  my  cousin  has     .     .     ." 

"Not  there — to  be  stepped  on!  Set  it  under  the 
table." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure!  Yes.  How  odd  I  didn't  think 
of  the  table!     My  cousin     .     .     ." 

"Give  me  my  bag  again.     I  need  it." 

"To  be  sure!"  He  bowed  and  handed  her  the 
desired  object.  She  pulled  it  open,  took  out  a  hand- 
kerchief, dabbed  at  her  nose,  put  the  handkerchief 
back  and  handed  the  bag  again  to  Howard,  who  was 
receiving  and  surrendering  her  property  mechanically 
now. 

"My  cousin  has  revealed     .     .     ." 

She  saw  his  embarrassment  and  his  anxiety  to 
conciliate  her  and  she  scorned  them. 

"Well,  I  hope  she  has  invented  some  sort  of  a 
story  that  people  can  believe.  That's  all  I  ask  of  her. 
As  the  mother  of  Corinne,  I  think  I  have  the  right 
to  ask  that." 

He  dropped  her  bag  on  the  bandbox  and  began 
eagerly. 

"Indeed  you  have,  my  dear,  kind  lady.  And 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear  that  the  true  story  removes  all 
the — the — doubtful  appearances." 

"  Don't  put  my  bag  there !     Put  it  on  the  table." 

He  obeyed  hastily. 


''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!"      339 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  As  I  was  saying,  the  true 
story,  removes     ..." 

She  interrupted  him  impatiently. 

"I  heard  you!  Of  course  I  knew  your  intelHgence 
would  be  equal  to  the  occasion.  I  suppose  youVe 
got  the  man  out  of  the  way?" 

She  had  removed  her  wrap  and  bonnet,  and  was 
moving  about  the  room  fussily,  with  little  touches  at 
this  and  little  dabs  at  that,  indicating  unmistakably 
that  at  last  a  mistress  of  quality  and  authority  had 
come  to  Villa  Rose.  She  turned  the  Buddha  about 
from  one  position  to  another,  and  finally  transferred 
him  to  the  stand  by  the  settee;  she  pulled  a  piece  of 
Sweet  William  out  of  the  vase  of  old-fashioned 
garden  flowers,  standing  there,  and  draped  it  over 
the  image's  shoulder.  She  carried  an  antique  copper 
vase  from  the  mantel  to  the  bookcase,  and  was 
obliged  to  make  room  for  it  there  by  scattering  a 
group  of  small  objects.  She  managed  to  crowd  them 
all  about  the  vase,  with  the  exception  of  a  foxhound 
in  green  bronze.  She  finally  deposited  this  animal 
at  the  feet  of  the  Buddha. 

**ril  have  a  smart  talk  with  those  two  lazy  maids 
to-morrow,  and  find  out  why  they  both  left  the  same 
day  as  the  coachman.  Fm  more  than  ever  convinced 
now,  that  there's  something  queer  about  that.  Of 
course  it  would  be  a  dreadful  shame  to  wake  Mrs. 
Lee,  yet,  if  she  had  a  telephone  I  really  would  have 


340      ''GOOD-MORN  I  NX),  ROSAMOND  T 

called  her.  SJie  should  know  about  this.  Oh,  I 
knew  all  along  that  that  gaudy  frock  had  not  been 
put  on  for  my  benefit!"  She  turned  abruptly. 
"Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  youVe  done  with 
the  man  F'^ 

Howard,  who  had  several  times  attempted  to 
speak,  and  had  also  been  following  her  spasmodic 
dashes  about  the  room  as  best  he  could,  caught  up 
with  her  now  and,  making  much  of  the  chance  to 
create  a  sensation,  said,  with  slow  impressiveness. 

"The  man  is  under  arrest." 

''Under  arrest!"  An  ivory  warrior,  of  the  Dy- 
nasty of  Bing,  jumped  out  of  her  slackening  hand 
and  rolled  under  the  bookcase  unheeded.  "Under 
arrest!  Good  gracious.  You  must  tell  me  all  about 
it  at  once.  Come  into  the  dining  room.  I  must 
make  myself  a  pot  of  tea  or  I  shall  be  faint.  Come 
at  once  and  tell  me." 

"Certainly.  You  must  be  in  possession  of  all  the 
facts,"  he  said,  soothingly. 

Dawn  was  sending  opalescent  flushes  across  the 
horizon  and  the  bird  life  in  the  gardens  of  Rosebor- 
ough  was  waking  with  musical  murmurs.  Rosamond 
entered  the  living  room  and  walked  about,  dejectedly, 
turning  off  the  lights.  A  white  mist  lay  over  the 
river.     The  air  was  damp  and  sweet. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ROSAMOND  heard  wheels  and  the  rattling  of 
milk-pails. 

"It  must  be  nearly  five,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Mearely." 

She  looked  up  to  see  Corinne  tiptoeing  in,  with 
glances  daring,  mischievous  and  fearful  too;  for  this 
most  delicious  act  of  disobedience  was  sure  of  its 
tragic  sequel.  Mabel  followed  her.  There  was 
nothing  playful  in  Miss  Crewe's  demeanour.  She 
v/as  pale  and  tense.  Her  prettily  modelled  rose-pink 
lips  were  compressed  into  a  narrow  chalky  line. 
She  stood  in  the  doorway,  staring  at  Rosamond  as  if 
the  lady  of  Villa  Rose  were  some  strange  being  she 
had  never  seen  before. 

"Oh  Mrs.  Mearely,  I'm  so  glad  you're  all  right. 
We  have  been  so  frightened  about  you.  Mamma 
ordered  me  to  stay  at  home — and  she  wouldn't  let 
Mabel  come  at  all — but  we've  disobeyed.  It'll  be 
awful!  But  Mamma  was  so  mysterious.  I  felt  that 
you  must  be  in  some  trouble  and  I  wanted  to  be  here, 
even  if  I  couldn't  do  anything.  You  know,  I  .  .  ." 
she  looked  down,  shyly,  "I  think  you  so  beautiful. 
You  mustn't  be  in  trouble." 

341 


342      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND r 

Rosamond's  eyes  filled. 

"You  dear  Corinne!"  She  embraced  her  warmly. 
The  young  girl's  childlike  tenderness  and  confidence 
were  very  welcome  to  her  in  this  hour  of  condemna- 
tion. 

"We  came  on  the  milk-wagon,"  Corinne  explained. 

"I  heard  it — more  wheels  from  Roseborough ! " 

"We  had  to  shout  and  run  across  the  field  to  catch 
it."  She  giggled.  "Mabel  has  been  all  stirred  up 
too.  You  see  we  telephoned  her,  when  we  thought 
you  were  dying,  to  wire  to  your  sister.  Then  I  told 
her  about  Mr.  Mills;  and  what  the  stupid  poHceman 
said  about  the  chauffeur.  And  she  got  as  excited  as 
I  was.  Then  mamma  .  .  ."  She  laughed  heartily, 
then  stopped  herself  with  two  fingers  over  her  mouth, 
as  if  she  had  been  guilty  of  sad  irreverence.  "Well, 
you  know  mamma.  She  has  such  an  imagination. 
And  she  never  can  wait  to  know  things.  She  had 
you  poisoned,  murdered,  shot,  and  then  she  thought 
you  had  shot  Mr.  Mills.  And  now  she  says — ^what  do 
you  think?" 

"I — I  can't  imagine,"  Mrs.  Mearely  stammered. 
She  tried  to  smile  at  Corinne,  but  she  was  too  con- 
scious of  Miss  Crewe's  hostile  gaze  and  tense  mouth. 
Corinne  shrieked  joyously  at  the  word. 

"Can't  imagine  !  No.  It  takes  mamma  to  ima- 
gine !  She  said:  *No  doubt  Mrs.  Mearely  will 
announce  her  engagement  to  Mr.  Howard  at  once. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      343 

He'll  see  his  opportunity,  and  Fll  trust  him  to  make 
the  most  of  it/  Now,  can  you  think  of  anybody 
but  mamma  imagining  you'd  choose  the  middle  of 
the  night  to  announce  an  engagement — even  if 
Mr.  Howard's  heart  wasn't  very  much  engaged 
elsewhere."  She  glanced  archly  over  her  shoulder 
at  her  cousin.  "But  that's  mamma.  She  imagines 
wonderfully;  but  she  doesn't  see  things  that  really 
happen — right  under  her  nose.     Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  dining  room,  I  think."  Rosamond  said 
aloud.  Inwardly  she  was  connecting  Corinne's 
repetitions  with  Mabel's  appearance,  and  question- 
ing, in  trepidation,  just  what  Miss  Crewe  had  come 
there  to  do. 

"I'd  better  go  in  and  get  my  scolding  now," 
Corinne  rattled  on.  "Poor  mamma.  It's  naughty 
of  me  to  laugh  at  her.  But  she  was  so  excited.  Of 
course,  you  can't  blame  mamma  for  making  the 
most  of  this.  Because  it's  the  first  time  anything 
has  really  happened  in  Roseborough." 

She  ran  to  the  door  then  back  to  her  cousin. 

"I  won't  tell  on  you,"  she  promised.  "You'll 
get  a  worse  wigging  than  I  shall."  She  scampered 
off  on  her  tiptoes,  giggling. 

Rosamond  decided,  presently,  that  it  was  unbear- 
able to  be  stared  at  as  Miss  Crewe  was  staring  at  her. 
She  would  break  the  silence,  no  matter  what  might 
come  afterwards. 


344      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

**It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come,  Miss  Crewe.  I 
am  sure  that     .     .     ." 

"Oh  what  is  the  use  of  talking  like  that!  Vm  not 
Corinne.  Don't  you  suppose  /  know  the  meaning 
of  Aunt  Emma's  innuendoes  and  sneers — and  her 
nods  and  winks  ?  Vve  had  years  of  them.  Do  you 
think  /  don't  know  why  she  is  here — and  why  she 
expects  the  immediate  announcement  of  your  engage- 
ment ? " 

"Miss  Crewe!" 

Ignoring  Mrs.  Mearely's  indignant  interruption, 
Mabel  rushed  on: 

"She'll  chaperon  and  stand  by  you;  and  you'll 
tempt  him  with  your  money,  to  marry  you,  so  that 
the  rich  Mrs.  Mearely  shall  not  be  disgraced.  I 
know!" 

Rosamond  did  not  take  kindly  to  criticism  at  any 
time.  In  the  last  twelve  hours  she  had  received 
enough  of  it,  she  felt,  to  last  her  a  life  time.  There 
was  something  more  than  offended  protest  rising  in 
her  now.  It  was  battle  that  beat  its  drums  in  her 
temples  and  her  pulses. 

"How  dare  you.?"  She  stepped  forward,  with  her 
head  high. 

"Yes!  I  dare.  But  don't  think  it  will  be  so 
easy."  Of  a  sudden  her  insolence  and  derision  melted 
away  in  suffering.  She  pleaded.  "Oh  how  can  you 
do  it — if  you  love  this  other  man  ?     You  have  money. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      345 

You  can  force  people  to  accept  him,  even  if  he  is  a 
nobody.  You  don't  need  to  marry  Wilton.  And 
you  know — everybody  knows — that  he'd  have  married 
me  long  ago,  if  we'd  had  any  money."  Then  she 
cried  out,  defiantly:  "Don't  think  you  can  do  it, 
though!     I'll  stop  it  somehow." 

The  charge  that  somebody  must  do  something 
desperate  to  prevent  her  from  throwing  herself  into 
Wilton's  arms  in  order  to  maintain  her  standing  in 
Roseborough,  set  another  match  to  Mrs.  Mearely's 
temper. 

"Oh — it's  insufferable  !  How  dare  you  and  your 
aunt  and  such  people  slander  me.?  The  man  who 
entered  my  house  to-night  is  under  arrest." 

This  was  said  to  wither  Mabel.  Mrs.  Mearely 
did  not  think  it  necessary,  therefore,  to  add  that  she 
had  tried,  by  a  dozen  tricks,  to  let  the  prisoner  escape. 
The  effect  of  her  dramatic  coup  was  the  reverse  of 
what  she  had  expected. 

"Under  arrest!  I  thought  it  was  only  men  who 
were  cowards  in  love.  If  you'll  send  him  to  gaol, 
no  wonder  you'll  try  to 'steal  the  man  I  love." 

Mrs.  Mearely  could  not  believe  her  ears. 

"What?  Oh!  Oh-h!"  She  wrung  her  hands. 
"Do  I  have  to  bear  this.?"  she  asked  of  the  twittering 
dawn. 

"I  came  here — I  hardly  know  what  I  hoped.  I 
thought    perhaps   I   could    appeal  to   you,   because 


346      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

you  were  brave.  Yes,  even  if  you  were  wicked, 
you  were  brave,  I  thought.  To  dare  so  much — 
but  .  .  ."  Mabel  looked  at  Rosamond  Mearely 
with  the  sly,  shocked  admiration  the  very  correct  feel 
for  those  who  venture  to  be  incorrect  in  the  sphere  of 
morals.  Rosamond  comprehended  the  look,  and  it 
put  her  into  a  fury. 

"Oh!  I  know  what  you  thought.  You  remem- 
bered that  I  was  Rosamond  Cort,  of  Poplars  Vale — 
whose  mother  sold  butter.  It  was  to  be  expected 
that  I  should  do  something  dreadful — and  impolite. 
I  suppose  Roseborough  does  consider  that  amorous 
midnight  escapades  are  impolite?  But  Roseborough 
isn't  surprised  at  me.  Oh,  no!  All  along  Rose- 
borough knew  that,  some  time  or  other,  Td  show  the 
butter  strain." 

Miss  Crewe  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Mearely!" 

Rosamond's  rage  mounted. 

"Oh,  yes!  Roseborough  knew  that  one  day  my 
bran-fed  morals  would  fail,  and — and — Fd  go  to  the 
devil  in  my  own  common.  Milky  Way,  Moo-o! 
Moo-o!  That's  all  I  care  for  Roseborough.  It  can't 
cow  me." 

"Oh— Mrs.  Mearely!" 

It  was  one  thing  to  have  a  sly  admiration  for 
Hibbert  Mearely's  widow's  brave  and  farm-like 
improprieties — not  ,to  use  a  harsher  word — but  one 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      347 

could  only  be  affronted  when  she  forgot  that  she  had 
left  farm  manners  behind  her,  and  put  her  arms 
akimbo! 

It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Mearely  had  still  a  great  deal 
to  say,  with  clear,  raised  voice  and  hands  on  her  hips. 

"I'd  rather  be  descended  from  good,  sweet  butter 
. — than — than — be  the  silly,  braying  donkeys  you  II 
all  be  to-morrow.  I  must  say  I'm  surprised  at  you, 
Miss  Crewe — who  have  had  the  advantages  of  high 
birth,  denied  to  me,  not  to  mention  the  wonderful 
opportunity  of  moral  training  under  Mrs.  Witherby 
— that  you  should  come  here  and  expose  your  tender 
feelings  for  a  gentleman,  who  proposed  to  me  this 
very  evening — before  all  this  happened.  Where's 
your  ancestral  pride?  Before  it  happened,  he  pro- 
posed to  me." 

"He  told  me  he  was  going  to,"  Mabel  answered 
quietly.  She  sank  into  the  big  chair  and  leaned  her 
face  against  the  cushioned  back.  Rosamond  stared 
at  her  speechlessly. 

**He  told  you?"  she  repeated,  presently. 

"Yes.  He  said  we  must  give  up  our  hopes — and 
marry  money." 

"I — /  was — Money  ?**  she  gasped. 

"Yes.  And  I  said  I'd  do  something  to  stop  it. 
And  I  have  I "  She  broke  down,  suddenly,  and  wept. 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Mearely.  You  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  almost  have  things,  and  then  be  pushed  aside. 


348      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

It  makes  you  desperate  and  wicked.  To  think  that 
just  because  we're  poor,  we  can't  marry." 

Rosamond  stared  at  her. 

"Of  course  I  knew  he  paid  you  attentions — but  I 
had  no  idea  there  was  really  an  understanding." 
Her  blankness  disappeared  before  a  humiliating 
sense  of  outrage. 

"Oh!  the  insufferable — the  wretched,  false,  in- 
sulting man.  To  dare  to  offer  himself  to  me!  Oh 
the— the  .  .  ."  She  turned  on  Mabel.  "What 
are  you  crying  about  ?  I  should  think  you'd  be  glad 
of  your  escape." 

She  strode  the  length  of  the  room  and  back  again, 
breaking  out  in  interjections  and  tumbled  phrases. 

"/  was  Money!  How  dare  he  humble  me  in  this 
fashion.?  Oh!  But  I'll  be  even  with  him.  Oh  yes! 
I'll  find  a  revenge.  I  was  to  be  his  dear  little 
Money,  eh?" 

Mabel's  helpless  sobbing  was  reaching  her  sym- 
pathies and  making  her  doubly  angry,  because  she 
did  not  want  her  sympathies  reached.  She  stamped 
her  foot. 

"Stop  that  crying.  Do  you  hear  me?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  can  still  love  the  wretch?  You 
can't  respect  him." 

Mabel  wiped  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Oh — respect!  I  wonder  if  women  ever  respect 
men   a   great   deal.     Perhaps  that   is   what    makes 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      349 

them  love  so  much — to  make  up  for  the  lack.  I 
think  men  have  to  respect  women.  But  women 
just  have  to  love.  I  love  him.  I  don't  know  why. 
Maybe  just  because  he  is  a  man  and  I'm  a  woman. 
One  must  love  somebody." 

Rosamond  sank  down  on  the  settee.  During 
Mabel's  words  she  had  been  moved  increasingly;  her 
heart  echoing  that  the  words  were  true — tragic,  but 
true. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "One  must  love  somebody. 
Oh,  yes,  Mabel."     Tears  welled  over  her  own  lids. 

"  It's  all  over,  now,"  Mabel  sobbed.  "  Even  if  you 
don't  take  Wilton.     It's  hopeless." 

Rosamond's  lips  quivered. 

"Oh,  it's  very  sad  to  be  just  a  lonely  woman  in 
this  dreadful  little  place.  And  to  be  young — young  I 
Oh,  Mabel,  dear!" 

"Yes.     Yes.     Oh,  Rosamond!" 

"Love  only  comes  in  at  the  window  and — and — 
kisses  you — once — and  flies  away  again." 

"Flies  away  again,"  Mabel  echoed.  They  found, 
first  each  other's  hands,  then  each  other's  arms, 
and  finally  grieved  upon  each  other's  bosoms  con- 
tentedly. 

"He'll  never  forgive  me  for  telling,"  Mabel  said. 
"Oh,  Rosamond,  you — ^you — don't  want  to  marry 
him,  do  you.?  Perhaps  I  ought  to  try  to  give  him 
up.?" 


3 so      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mrs.  Mearely's  injured  pride  leaped  again  into 
wrathy  flames. 

"Not  to  me!  The  wretch!  The  deceitful,  de- 
luding— deluding — de — de — deceitful  thing.  Yes, 
thing.  I'd  like  to  make  him  pay,  with  his  whole  life, 
for  the  insults  he  has  heaped  on  me  to-night." 
Even  as  she  wished,  the  way  to  realize  her  desire 
suggested  itself  to  her.  "Ah!  I  can  do  it!  Cer- 
tainly I  can.  And  you  shall  help  me.  He  and  your 
aunt  are  so  nice  and  smug  and  busy  over  my  affairs — 
eh?  ril  give  them  a  bit  of  scandal  of  their  own  to  take 
care  of.  Fll  make  her  writhe.  I'll  avenge  myself.  I'll 
make  him  pay — all  his  life  long.  I'll  show  them  all 
who's  who  in  Roseborough.  Let  them  see  if  the  butter- 
maker's  daughter  isn't  a  match  for  them!"  She 
marched — sailed  is  perhaps  the  better  word — to  the 
door,  threw  it  open  and  called  with  a  great  authority 
to  the  tea-drinking  conspirators  in  the  dining  room: 

"Mrs.  Witherby,  kindly  put  my  cups  down  on  my 
table  and  come  out  of  my  dining  room." 

She  walked  swiftly  to  the  stand  by  the  settee  and 
picked  up  the  Digest.  She  stood  there  holding  the 
paper,  waiting.  Mrs.  Witherby  looked  flustered  but 
belligerent.  Howard  was  patently  apprehensive. 
Corinne,  who  had  received  a  terrible  scolding,  was 
excited  and  scared,  but  not  too  much  so,  for  she 
clung  to  one  of  Jemima's  fresh  cookies  and  occa- 
sionally nibbled  at  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MRS.  WITHERBY  stared  the  hostess  of  Villa 
Rose  up  and  down;  but  the  latter  did  not  quail. 
She  pointed  toward  a  chair  with  the  folded  Digest. 

Now,  many  a  time,  while  flattering  and  "my- 
dearing"  the  lady  of  the  villa,  Mrs.  Witherby — 
secretly  chafing  because  she  dared  not  call  her  by  her 
Christian  name,  and  patronize  her — had  wished  that 
an  opportunity  might  arise  to  enable  her  to  "put 
the  farmer's  daughter  in  her  place."  In  a  pitched 
battle,  Mrs.  Witherby  always  won,  no  matter  who 
her  opponent  might  be,  because  her  tongue  and  spite 
were  tireless. 

"Well!  I  wondered  when  you  were  going  to 
greet  me,"  she  began.  Her  top-knot  waved  and  her 
silks  rustled  as  she  plumed  and  girded  herself  for  the 
fray.  But  the  Digest,  gracefully  manipulated,  waved 
her  to  silence. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  hear  you  talk.  /  am  mistress 
here,  and  /  shall  do  the  talking."  She  moved,  and 
Mrs.  Witherby  caught  sight  of  her  niece.  She  darted 
at  her  in  a  fury.  At  the  moment  she  was  at  least 
capable  of  boxing  her  ears,  whether  such  was  her 
specific  intent  or  not. 

351 


352      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Mabel!  how  dare  you  disobey  me?"  she  began. 

Mrs.  Mearely  stepped  in  between  and  languidly 
shooed  the  warlike  woman  ofF  with  the  periodical. 

"Be  silent,  if  you  please.  Mabel  is  my  guest. 
She  is  under  my  protection."  She  patted  Mabel's 
head.  "  Don't  cry,  dear,  Don't  be  afraid.  Corinne 
come  and  sit  by  your  cousin."  She  drew  Corinne 
to  the  spot  indicated,  despite  maternal  hands  thrust 
out  to  prevent.  "You  may  sit  there — and  there." 
She  filHped  the  Digest  to  point  out  the  chairs  where 
she  desired  to  see  Mrs.  Witherby  and  Mr.  Howard 
deposit  themselves.  Howard  sank  into  his  chair 
quickly,  making  himself  as  small  as  possible  to  escape 
the  high  winds  which  he  saw  were  about  to  sweep 
over  the  landscape.  Mrs.  Witherby,  by  no  means 
subdued  as  yet,  but  temporarily  nonplussed,  sat 
down;  but  she  watched  her  antagonist  with  baleful 
eye,  waiting  for  an  opening.  Mrs.  Mearely's  justified 
wrath  burned  high  and  she  let  the  flames  spread. 

Since  Roseborough  would  have  it  that  she  was 
not  a  Mearely,  nor  a  legitimate  child  of  Roseborough, 
she  would  let  them  all  experience  the  encounter  they 
sought  with  little  Rosamond  Cort,  the  farmer's 
daughter,  of  Poplars  Vale,  who  could  fill  her  two 
hands  with  earth  and  declare  "this  is  my  earth — the 
earth  I  sprang  from!"  and  throw  both  handfuls  at 
anyone  who  was  unnatural  enough  to  look  down  upon 
her. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      353 

"So?  You'll  come  into  my  house — with  your 
trunks — and  take  possession,  eh?  You'll  be  busy 
here,  will  you  ?  You'll  tell  the  whole  of  Roseborough 
that  Rosamond  Cort,  whose  mother  made  butter, 
has  gone  wrong  at  last !  Yes ;  the  unworthy  widow  of 
the  distinguished  Hibbert  Mearely  had  a  lover  in 
her  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night."  She  even 
went  so  far  as  to  mimic  Mrs.  Witherby's  unique 
intonations,  as  she  quoted  what  that  lady  might  be 
expected  to  say  in  the  village. 

"*0h,  yes,  my  dear.  Of  course  I  did  what  I  could 
to  protect  her.  They  arrested  the  man — but,  of 
course,'" — with  nods  and  shrugs — "*Well,  my  dear, 
after  all — who  was  she  ?  Butter,  my  dear,  butter!' 
Butter,  butter!"  she  hissed  it,  furiously. 

"Oh,  I  know  you — hypocrite!  Now  I  shall  give 
you  a  lesson.  I  shall  give  Roseborough  a  lesson. 
The  joke  will  last  this  community  for  fifty  years. 
And  maybe  it  will  cure  you  of  scandal-mongering, 
though  I  doubt  it.  The  man — is  in  there!  As  long 
as  there  was  a  chance  of  his  escape,  I  would  have 
protected  his  incognito.''  She  paused  to  let  the  word 
take  effect.  Then  she  floated  to  the  music  room  door, 
flung  it  wide  and  said,  with  deliberate  impressiveness, 

"Will  you  come  here,  if  you  please — Prince  ?" 

Corinne  and  Mabel  turned  and  looked  at  each 
other.  Mrs.  Witherby  and  Howard  sat  up  and  looked 
at  Rosamond. 


354      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Prince!"  Mrs.  Witherby  repeated  mechanically. 

"What  is  it,  Madam  Make-Believe?"  the  prince 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  with  the  watchful  Marks 
a  step  behind. 

"Come,  please — Prince.'*  She  led  him  toward  the 
group,  taking  care  to  keep  slightly  aside,  and  not 
directly  in  front  of  him;  for  she  knew,  from  Mr. 
Mearely's  dissertations  on  form,  that  one  must  never 
turn  one's  back  squarely  upon  royalty. 

"Mrs.  Witherby — Mr.  Howard — this  gentleman 
whom  you  have  insulted  as  grossly  as  you  have  in- 
sulted me — is"  (she  consulted  the  paper).  "Wait — 
here  it  is.  This  gentleman  is  His  Highness,  Prince 
Adam  Lapid,  reigning  Duke  of  Woodseweedsetisky." 
She  addressed  the  Prince,  diffidently:  "I  trust  I  have 
pronounced  Your  Highness  correctly?" 

"Er — the  pronunciation  is  perfect.  The  w's  are 
generally  v's — that  is,  approximately — but  to  the 
Saxon  mind,  of  course,  that  is  mere  fussiness."  He 
drew  near  and  murmured  for  her  ear  alone.  "  What's 
the  idea.?" 

She  did  not  hear  his  query;  because  she  was  in  the 
medium  stage  of  a  perfect  curtsy.  He  saw  her  silver 
draperies  spread,  like  a  moonht  breaker  flowing  to 
his  feet;  and  he  put  a  hand  over  his  heart  and  bowed, 
as  a  prince  should — a  low  and  stately  bow  it  was;  but 
it  may  have  been  done  to  hide  the  mirth  in  his  eyes. 

Except  to  clasp  each  other's  hands,  Mabel  and 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      355 

Corinne  had  not  moved.  Howard  stared.  Mrs. 
Witherby  sat  rigid,  still  muttering  "prince."  The 
etiquette  for  the  occasion  was  to  be  defined  by  a 
humbler  than  they. 

Constable  Marks  moved  into  the  circle,  and 
took  up  his  position  a  little  to  the  left  of  His 
Highness — as  the  tradition  is,  for  armed  guardians 
of  the  Crown,  the  left  side  being  the  weaker,  because 
farther  from  the  right  arm  and,  possibly,  also,  because 
nearer  the  heart  (so  the  history  of  royal  love-affairs, 
with  attendant  political  catastrophes,  would  suggest). 
Slowly  he  removed  his  broken  straw  hat  and  held  it 
stiffly  in  front  of  him  on  his  thumb. 

Mrs.  Witherby  half  rose,  hesitated,  got  up,  and 
bowed  twice.  Dissatisfied  with  that,  she  attempted 
a  curtsy.  Howard  was  on  his  feet  now,  with  head 
inclined  in  a  respectful  attitude.  The  prince  hon- 
oured Mrs.  Witherby  by  returning  her  salutations. 
She  shook  Corinne's  arm. 

"Get  up.  Commoners  must  rise  when  princes 
are  about.     Haven't  you  any  etiquette  .f* " 

A  master  of  ceremonies  seemed  to  have  been 
miraculously  provided  in  the  obsequious  person  of 
Mr.  Alfred  Marks,  a  citizen  of  a  land  where  such  as 
he  eat  their  bread  and  cheese  with  a  Hthographed 
group  of  the  Royal  Family  beside  the  God-Bless- 
Our-Home  motto,  over  the  kitchen  table  and  where 
the  lowliest  Whitechapel  pushcart  man  knows  the 


356      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

King's  taste  in  Court  procedure  and  is  free  to  agree 
with  it  or  not.     He  spoke  now  with  reproof. 

"Somebody  ought  to  give  'Is  'Ighness  a  seat. 
'Twouldn't  be  reg'lar  for  me, — bein'  on  juty  an' 
hactin'  as  the  Royal  Guard,  so  to  speak." 

Mrs.  Witherby,  Howard,  Corinne,  and  her  cousin, 
all  ran  to  pull  up  the  nearest  chair  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on. 

"Oh,  really — I  beg  of  you.  Just  one,  thank  you. 
Won't  you  be  seated  again.?" 

Seeing  them  hastening  to  obey,  Mr.  Marks  inter- 
posed again.     He  spoke  severely. 

''H after  'Is  'Ighness!" 

Heedless  of  the  general  awkwardness  of  four 
persons,  thus  sharply  arrested  in  half-sitting  postures, 
the  Royal  Guard  pulled  his  kerchief  out  of  his  coat 
pocket  and  dusted  the  throne,  before  assisting  the 
prince  to  seat  himself  by  shoving  it  against  his  knee- 
joints.  Then,  with  a  casual  gesture,  he  permitted 
the  others  to  collapse  all  the  way  into  their  several 
chairs. 

It  is  customary  for  royalty,  when  not  incognito, 
to  be  discreet  and  infrequent  of  utterance.  This 
might  explain  the  silence  now  maintained  by  the 
prince,  who  had  shown  himself,  earlier  in  the  evening, 
to  be  not  only  talkative  but  even  merry  and  prankish. 
His  eyes  still  twinkled  occasionally;  but  he  no  longer 
took  the  initiative  in  introducing  subjects  of  con- 


"GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      357 

versation.  He  seemed  to  prefer  to  follow  Mrs. 
Mearely's  lead.  Possibly  this  was  in  accordance 
with  some  old  custom  of  providing  a  Talking  Woman 
to  do  the  talking  for  princes,  even  as  there  were  once 
Whipping  Boys,  who  received  the  princely  deserts 
for  bad  conduct.  He  affected  not  to  hear  questions, 
or — murmuring,  "Certainly,"  or  ** Oh,  to  be  sure  " — he 
referred  the  query  to  his  Talking  Woman  for  answer. 

"I  believe  you  read,  earlier  in  the  evening  of 
Prince  Adam's  adventures."  She  tapped  the  Digest 
with  her  forefinger. 

Corinne,  unable  to  contain  herself  any  longer,  cried 
out: 

"Prince!  Oh,  Tm  so  glad  you  came  here!  But  I 
just  felt  sure  you  would.  I  said  so  to  Mrs.  Mearely."' 
He  smiled  at  her. 

Mrs.  Witherby*s  suspicions  were  awake  again. 

"May  I  ask  how  you  knew  he  was  the  prince.?  Of 
course  I  don't  doubt  Your  Highness  at  all.  But 
may  we  not  know  how  Mrs.  Mearely  was  able  to 
corroborate     .     .     .      ?" 

The  prince  bowed  to  her  affably.  "Oh,  to  be  sure. 
Naturally."     He  looked  at  Rosamond. 

"When  His  Highness  first  entered  I  supposed  he 
was  a  vagabond.  It  was  dark.  When  His  Highness 
spoke,  of  course  I  recognized  that  he  was  not  a  tramp, 
but  a  gentleman." 

Mrs.  Witherby  could  not  resist  a  dig. 


358      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"/  should  have  known  that  at  once.  Naturally, 
from  my  station  in  life." 

"Then — ^when  I  served  the  supper,  His  Highness 
went  into  the  dining  room  for  a  glass  of  water.  Dur- 
ing his  absence,  Captain  Lass-an-a-vatiewicz''  (she 
struggled  over  the  name,  but  achieved  it,)  "of  the  Dip- 
lomatic Secret  Service  of  Woodseweedsetisky,  came  in. 
He  had  been  watching  about  here  all  the  evening. 
Mrs.  Witherby  saw  him  looking  over  the  railing." 

Mrs.  Witherby  sprang  up. 

"There!  There!"  she  declared,  triumphantly. 
"I  told  you     .     .     ."     She  pointed  at  Howard. 

Constable  Marks  rebuked  her  sternly: 

"  'Ere,  'ere,  now!  Less  hexcitement  and  more 
hetiquette  before  'Is  'Ighness." 

When  she  had  subsided,  Rosamond  continued : 

"He  told  me  the  real  identity  of  my  supposed 
vagabond     .     .     ." 

"The  real  identity  .f*"  the  prince  questioned. 

"I  should  say  he  suggested  it  to  me,  guardedly, 
by  telling  me  that  he  was  here  from — from  Woodse- 
weedsetisky." 

Her  eyes  besought  him  to  confirm  her  trembling 
accents. 

"Perfectly  pronounced,"  he  murmured.  "Ex- 
cept the  w's,  of  course,  as  I  said  before.  And  the 
o's  and  double  e's  being  quite  different." 

She  smiled  happily. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      359 

**rm  so  glad  I  say  it  right,  now.  He  said  he  had 
come  to  induce  a  certain  great  person  to  go  home  to 
his  duties — meaning  Prince  Adam  and  his  throne." 

The  prince  repeated,  in  quick  surprise: 

"To  take  a  certain  great  person  home?" 

"Yes.  That's  how  I  knew  who  you  were.  And 
he  said  that  he  knew  the  prince  would  come  here 
to-night,  because  of  His  Highness's  chivalrous,  ro- 
mantic nature — to  protect  me,  because  I  was  alone." 

The  prince  rose,  in  his  growing  astonishment. 

"He  expected  His  Highness  here?     To-night?" 

"Yes;  and  here  you  are."     She  beamed. 

He  sat  down  again.     "I  pass,"  he  muttered. 

"How  wonderful  for  His  Highness  to  be  so  under- 
stood," Howard  commented. 

"It  must  be.  It  is,"  His  Highness  answered. 
He  appeared  to  be  in  a  brown  study. 

"I  think  even  Mrs.  Witherby  must  admit  that 
there  is  no  longer  a  suspicion  attached  to  me.  And 
that  the  fact  that  my  midnight  visitor  is  PrinceAdam 
Lapid  explains  everything  perfectly,  and  clears  me." 

With  a  gracious,  condescending  smile,  Mrs. 
Witherby  received  her  again  into  the  fold. 

"Oh,  yes.  Certainly.  Oh,  yes,  the  fact  that 
His  Highness  is  a  prince  clears  up — everything,'' 

"Ah,  then  I  am  royal  with  reason.  I  confer 
reputation  on  lovely  woman — rather  reversing  his- 
torical precedent  in  that  matter." 


36o      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"But,  indeed,  our  dear  Mrs.  Mearely  has  given 
Your  Highness  quite  an  erroneous  idea  of  my  friendly 
ministrations  in  this  house.  She  is  so  sensitive. 
Of  course,  no  one  in  this  dear  old  town,  where  she  is 
so  well  known,  would  think  for  a  moment  that — 
that  .  .  .''  finding  the  sentence  difficult  to 
complete,  she  wound  up  very  emphatically — "Er — 
No  one !  Why  don't  you  say  something,  Mr. 
Howard  ?     You  are  our  dear  Rosamond's  cousin." 

Mrs.  Mearely  noted  the  use  of  her  Christian  name, 
but  forbore  to  administer  a  snub,  knowing  that  she 
would  soon  have  a  better  revenge. 

"You  seemed  to — um — be  so  full  of  the  right 
ideas,  I  could  hardly  contribute  anything,"  he  replied 
lamely. 

"Ah!  But  there  is  even  a  greater  surprise  in  store 
for  our  dear,  active  Mrs.  Witherby.  His  Highness 
is  like  a  fairy  prince.  He  brings  romance  to  light 
wherever  he  goes.  Only  to-night,  Mrs.  Witherby 
said  she  had  a  premonition  that  an  engagement 
would  be  announced  here,  before  she  left  this  house. 
How  wonderful  to  have  such  a  prophetic  vision! 
She  discerned — in  the  crystal  of  her  own  pure 
thoughts — that  Mr.   Howard's  bachelor  days  were 


over." 


She  saw  that  both  Mrs.  Witherby  and  Howard 
started  but  she  gave  them  no  time  to  interrupt. 
"Yes.     It  is  my  pride  and  pleasure,  to  announce 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      361 

the  engagement  of  my  dear,  considerate  fifth  cousin 
— by  marriage — to  my  friend  and  confidante,  Miss 
Mabel  Crewe.  How  we  have  talked  secrets  to-night, 
haven't  we,  Mabel?  There!  That  is  a  surprise, 
isn't  it,  Mrs.  Witherby?  But,  think!  How  dis- 
tinguished to  have  your  niece's  espousals  blessed  by 
royalty!  That  will  give  you  something  to  talk 
about  for  the  next  fifty  years ! " 

She  had  waited  a  long  night  for  this  moment  and 
she  made  the  most  of  it.  MaHcious  triumph  shot 
electrical  sparks  from  her  person.  "Call  me  Rosa- 
mond again!     Cat!"  was  in  her  mind. 

One  cannot  make  scenes  before  royalty.  Mrs. 
Witherby's  claws  were  clipped.  She  smiled  a  vine- 
gary smile. 

"It  is  a  surprise — indeed.  I  am  glad  to  learn  that 
the  young  people  are  in  such  affluent  circumstances. 
I  hadn't  known  of  their  windfall." 

Howard  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  had  not  expected  the — announcement.  It  is  a 
great  honour — er — doubly  so — er — under  the  cir- 
cumstances." 

Corinne  embraced  her  cousin  ecstatically. 

"Oh,  Mabel!  Oh— I'm  so  glad!  Oh,  Your  High- 
ness, it  must  be  wonderful  to  do  such  lovely  things 
for  people.  Perhaps  that's  why  you  are  called 
Prince  Adam — because  you  make  all  things  lovely, 
like  the  Garden  of  Eden." 


362      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"Dear  young  lady,"  he  responded;  "it  is  my  fond- 
est aim  to  make  this  world  once  more  an  Eden  for 
everyone."  He  bowed  to  Mrs.  Witherby,  and 
amended.  "Of  course,  with  certain  restrictions — 
chiefly  in  the  matter  of  drapery." 

Corinne  sighed  with  extreme  joy. 

"Oh,  it  does  change everythingv^htn  a  Prince  comes ! " 

"  For  a  wedding  gift  to  my  dear  cousin,"  Rosamond 
said,  "I  am  adding  to  his  future  wife's  dower.  As 
Corinne  says,  it  does  change  everything  when  a 
prince  comes.  I  never  thought  before  how  much  I 
might  give.  Come  here,  Wilton  and  sit  beside  her — 
and  thank  your  lucky  stars.  She  wants  you"  she 
muttered,  as  he  passed  her,  "well,  she  shall  own  you." 

"I  do  thank  my  lucky  stars,  cousin  Rosamond," 
he  answered  as  he  took  Mabel's  hand.  His  face 
was  dark  with  the  flush  of  his  own  contempt.  "I 
am  the  gainer  in  every  way.  I  am  utterly  unworthy 
of  her."  Then,  as  her  cold  fingers  clung  tightly  to 
his,  he  added — speaking  to  her  only,  as  if  he  were 
determined  to  put  behind  him  everything  else  that 
had  been  said  and  thought  in  that  room  during  the 
night — "perhaps  the  coming  of  the  prince  may 
change  that,  too." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Corinne  sighed  again,  "Mr.  Howard, 
/  think  you're  perfectly  nice.  But  that  part  doesn't 
matter.  Everybody  will  be  so  glad  to  see  Mabel 
get  what  she  wants.'^ 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A  SILENCE  of  acute  embarrassment  was  happily 
broken  by  Mr.  Marks.     Saluting,  he  said: 

"If  Hi  may  make  so  bold  before  Ts  Tghness — 
there'll  be  no  'oldin'  Mrs.  Marks  w'en  she  hears  of 
Ts  Tghness  a-jumpin'  on  my  'ead,  she  bein'  ham- 
bitious." 

Mrs.  Witherby,  who  felt  dissatisfied  with  the 
opportunities  accorded  her  hitherto  for  impressing 
His  Highness  with  her  character  as  a  gentlewoman  all 
Roseborough  delighted  to  honour,  settled  herself 
fussily  in  her  chair  and  began  to  discourse,  with  an 
air  of  one  who  has  dwelt  much,  if  not  in  palaces,  at 
least  around  the  corner. 

"Your  Highness  of  course  is  only  on  a  little  in- 
cognito journey — I  presume,  to  study  the  conditions 
of  humbler  folk.  Your  Highness  will  shortly  return 
to  his  throne,  with  all  its  royal  splendours  ? " 

He  bowed,  and  in  a  manner  more  royally  aloof 
than  he  had  used  before — a  manner  that  proclaimed 
the  crowned  Ruler — he  condescended  to  converse  with 
her. 

"We  left  our  throne  somewhat  suddenly,  because 
our  royal  splendours  had  rather  wearied  us.     Con- 

3^ 


364      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

ceive,  my  dear  madam,  of  having  one's  every  step 
attended  by  a  score  of  uniformed  menials.  Con- 
ceive of  the  infinite  ceremony  of — let  us  say — boot- 
lacing,  under  the  royal  system.  Contrast  it  with  the 
ease  and  privacy  with  which  you,  for  instance,  draw 
on  your  fine  prunella  boots.  You  are  alone.  You  sit. 
There  is  the  difficult  stoop  to  bring  the  boot  and  the 
foot  into  friendly  focus.  Then  the  valiant  tussle,  the 
gasp,  perhaps  the  stitch  in  the  side — if  the  weather 
is  warm,  the  drop  of  moisture — and  the  thing  is 
accomplished." 

Mrs.  Witherby  twitched  as  if  she  were  about  to 
protest  sharply,  but  a  cold,  lofty  look  and  gesture 
restrained  her. 

"If  Hi  may  make  so  bold  as  to  s'y  so,  Ts  Tghness 
is  a  wonderful  'and  to  describe  things.  Hi  can  see 
'er  doin'  of  it,"  Officer  Marks  snickered  reverentially, 
"beggin'  'Is  'Ighness's  pardon." 

The  prince,  regardless  of  the  lady's  bristles,  eluci- 
dated further: 

"Whereas,  with  us,  the  matter  is  not  so  simple. 
Conceive  of  a  half  battalion  in  livery  to  find  the 
boots — under  the  regulations  of  the  Secret  Service 
Department.  Two  detectives  to  unravel  the  laces. 
Two  gentlemen,  from  the  Interstate  Commission  of 
Harmony-Producers,  to  bring  the  royal  feet  and 
royal  boots  into  juxtaposition.  Four  to  incase  the 
feet  in  the  boots.     And,  say,  half  a  dozen  more  to 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      365 

attend  to  lacing  and  polishing.  So  with  everything. 
An  army  of  chemists  to  test  one's  toilet  waters  and 
perfumes  every  time  one  desires  a  snifF  — for  fear 
some  anarchist  spy  may  have  dropped  poison  into 
them.  It  becomes  irksome.  And,  at  times,  we 
steal  forth  secretly,  climb  the  palace  palings,  leap 
across  the  orchard,  open  the  front  gate  of  our  king- 
dom and  stroll  forth,  incognito — as  you  see." 

Corinne  gasped  "Isn't  it  thrilling.?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Rosamond  breathed. 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  anxious  cO  retrieve  herself, 
feeling  that  her  first  essay  had  not  resulted  greatly 
to  her  honour.  She  smiled  respectfully  and  began 
again. 

"I  hope  Your  Highness  will  not  think  me  imperti- 
nent— but  is  Your  Highness  not  related  to  most  of 
the  crowned  heads  of  Europe?" 

"You  perceive  resemblances?" 

"Oh,  strong  ones ! "  She  tossed  her  head,  delighted 
with  herself  for  this  show  of  intelligence.  "  Particu- 
larly to  the  Czar  of  Russia — and  the  King  of  Spain. 
Also  Emperor  WilHam — about  the  eyes.  Those  are 
the  royalties  who  are  most  often  photographed  in 
the  papers.  But  I  daresay  Your  Highness  resembles 
all  the  others,  too.  I  beheve  you  are  all  related.? 
One  hears  that  said." 

"We  sprang  from  a  common  parent,  madam." 

Mr.  Marks  looked  about,  proudly,  and  said: 


366      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

''Hi  think  'e  looks  like  the  King  of  Hengland.'^ 
After  a  brief  pause,  he  added  patronizingly,  "though 
the  hothers  is  well  enough  in  their  way." 

"I  trust  Your  Highness  does  not  find  us  deficient 
in  etiquette,"  said  Mrs.  Witherby.  "My  late 
husband's  mother  once  knew  a  London  lady  who  had 
been  to  Court." 

"Oh  mamma,  Fm  sure  His  Highness  doesn't  care 
about  etiquette,  or  he  wouldn't  run  away  incog," 
Corinne  expostulated. 

"Every  Court  has  its  rules  of  etiquette,  my  dear, 
and  even  royalty  must  conform  to  them." 

Corinne  looked  disappointed. 

"Oh,  does  Your  Highness  have  to  do  just  so — as  we 
do?" 

He  gave  her  an  affectionate,  whimsical  glance,  and 
said: 

"Yes;  but  when  I  put  on  my  crown  and  climb  upon 
my  throne,  I  write  my  own  rules  of  Just  So.  And, 
what  is  more,  I  make  everyone  conform  to  them.  It 
is  not  difficult.  Because,  when  they  once  understand, 
they  wish  to  conform;  and  no  other  rules  will  do  for 
them  at  all." 

"They  must  be  wonderful  laws  that  people  zuant  to 
keep,"  Mabel  thought. 

Rosamond,  asking  for  more  fairy  tales,  said : 

"Oh,  won't  Your  Highness  tell  us  about  your 
•countrv?" 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!"      367 

He  took  her  hands  lightly,  smiling  into  her  eager 
eyes : 

"  Trince,  Prince,  how  does  your  garden  grow  ? '  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  be  the  prince  of  one's  own  little 
country.  There  are  no  prisons;  because  there  are 
no  criminals.  That  is  because  everything  is  freely 
given.  Our  financial  rating  is  according  to  what  a 
man  has  given."  He  looked  pointedly  at  the  heiress 
of  the  Mearely  fortune,  and  added,  "No  one  is  proud 
of  being  merely  rich."  She  blushed  faintly  and  looked 
down,  accepting  the  suggested  rebuke.  His  regard, 
with  its  whimsical  seriousness — its  blend  of  humorous 
comprehension,  and  confident  love,  of  human  nature 
— sought  Mabel's,  next.  "There  are  no  poor ;  because 
they  have  learned  to  love  while  they  serve — and  that 
makes  them  rich."  He  looked  at  Howard  and  per- 
haps he,  too,  recognized  the  **  product  of  a  bloodless, 
stagnant  village" — bhnd  only  because  it  had  not 
been  shown  light;  for  there  was  no  sting  in  his  words: 
"Love  is  valued  above  everything.  The  love  of  a 
girl's  heart  is  more  precious  to  her  lover  than  much 
gold."  The  lovers'  fingers  tightened  on  each  other's. 
"And  no  one  frowns  on  young  chatterboxes  or  says 
'hush!  hush!'" 

"Oh — h,"  Corinne  sighed  again  in  ecstasy. 

"There  are  no  gossips  in  my  country.  That  is 
because  every  child  is  taught  to  recite,  in  its  cradle, 
the  articles  of  the  country's  Constitution.     Every 


368      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

infant  can  say  *Oo — goo-goo — goog-ly ' — ^which,  when 
translated,  means  *  Mind  your  own  business ! ' "  Mrs. 
Witherby  became  as  flustered  as  if  everyone  in 
Roseborough  did  not  know  (from  hearing  her  oft 
asseverate  it)  how  she  despised  gossip.  The  Prince 
continued:  "Observance  of  this  one  law  has  given 
perfect  domestic,  social,  religious,  political,  and  inter- 
national harmony.'' 

There  was  silence  for  some  time  after  this,  while 
the  younger  folk,  at  least,  tried  to  visualize  a  country 
where  all  these  things  were  true.  Even  Mr.  Marks 
was  in  dreamland,  absent-mindedly  chewing  his 
hat-brim  and  spufiing  out  the  straw  chips. 

"Hit  must  be  a  'appy  neighbour 'ood,"  he  said 
at  last,  plaintively.  His  Highness  gave  him  a 
merry  look  over  his  shoulder. 

"It  is,"  he  said.  "All  the  police  are  sergeants. 
They  have  no  weapons.  But  the  government  sup- 
plies them  with  a  new  cherry  ribbon  for  their  watch- 
fobs  every  Sunday." 

Marks  saluted,  grinning  bashfully. 

"Oh,  tell  some  more,"  Corinne  urged.  "Please 
Prince,  tell  some  more — about  you'' 

"Yes,"  Rosamond  echoed.  "Tell  some  more 
about  you." 

"About  me?"  He  looked  past  the  little  group, 
whose  limited  and  selfish  ideas  of  human  joy  and  the 
means  to  happiness  had  brought  them  into  Villa 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      369 

Rose  to  know  envy  and  suspicion  and  to  call  one 
another  names;  and  he  saw  the  river  and  its  valley 
painted  by  the  dawn.  Earth  and  sky  were  agleam 
with  the  fires  that  precede  the  rising  sun.  The 
rhythms  of  earth's  beauty,  flowing  to  meet  and  heal 
the  human  need,  came  to  his  ear  in  the  Hit  of  a  verse 
such  as  a  child's  lips  might  shape,  as  it  went  dancing, 
barefoot,  through  the  radiant  valley. 
"I.?     Why— lam     .     .     ." 

I  am  Prince  of  the  Nameless  Land. 

I  have  set  my  throne  on  the  azure  steep, 
And  rimmed  it  round  with  a  starry  band, 

For  the  hearts  that  stray  and  the  eyes  that  weep. 

Faith  rears  my  walls  o'er  a  garden  slope; 
My  dreams  are  camped  on  the  hills  of  Hope; 

White  stone  is  my  castle  crest. 
Peace  is  my  sentry  and  Mirth  my  guard, 
My  gates  are  wide  and  my  doors  unbarred 

For  the  feet  of  the  human  guest. 

Joy  is  my  sceptre,  and  Tenderness 

The  crown  on  my  august  brow; 
The  ring  on  my  finger  is  Gratitude 

To  God,  who  has  sealed  my  vow. 
And  set  his  song  in  my  waiting  lips, 

His  love  in  my  writing  hand. 
And  made  me  Lord  of  the  Things  Men  Dream — 

The  Prince  of  their  Nameless  Land! 

The  rosy  glow  from  the  sky  stole  into  the  room; 
and,  to  the  Nature-man  and  song-maker,  it  came  like 
music.     So  Love  had  come  to  him  there:   at  last. 


370      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

the  song  with  words,  fitting  the  measures  of  its  plain 
telling  to  the  old  rhythms  of  his  daily  faith  and  desire. 
She — the  woman — ^was  the  gift  to  him  of  all  the  dawns 
he  had  watched  alone. 

A  crashing  of  hoofs  on  the  hill-road  called  the 
singer  and  his  companions  back  to  Roseborough. 

"What  rapid  riding!"  Mrs.  Witherby  exclaimed. 
She  went  to  the  verandah,  followed  by  Howard. 
"Can  it  be  someone  coming  here?" 

"Oh  dear!"  Corinne  sighed.  "Roseborough  will 
never  see  a  night  like  this  again." 

The  prince  turned  to  her  abruptly. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

She  looked  at  him,  in  surprise  at  his  tone. 

"I  said  we'd  never  have  another  wonderful  night 
like  this  in  Roseborough." 

"In  Roseborough  F  "  he  repeated,  plainly  astonished. 
"This — ^this  is  not  Roseborough?" 

"But  certainly  it  is,"  Rosamond  answered.  "I 
told  you  so." 

"You  told  me  it  was  Something  Vale.  Rose- 
borough!" He  stared  at  her,  blankly.  "Fve  been 
wondering  for  hours  how  a  house  in  Something  Vale 
could  look  down  on  just  the  same  bit  of  the  river. 
How  is  it  that  you  .  .  .  ?  Really" — he  looked 
in  amazement  from  one  to  the  other — "you  know, 
it's  very  odd  to  find  that  I  have  realjy  been  here  all 
the  time!" 


''GOOD-MORNTNG,  ROSAMOND!"      371 

"Quite  so,"  Howard  replied,  kindly.  To  Mrs. 
Witherby  he  whispered,  tapping  his  brow  signifi- 
cantly, "Charming  fellow — His  Highness — but 
touched." 

"Oh  yes!"  She  agreed,  excitedly.  "Of  course,  I 
saw  that  at  once.  But  royalty  is,  you  know. 
They're  all  insane.     I've  always  heard  tliat." 

The  galloping  pounded  into  the  driveway  and  up 
to  the  verandah. 

"It's  Dr.  Frei,"  Howard  said. 

Frei  strode  rapidly  across  the  porch,  his  gaze  seek- 
ing Rosamond.  He  wore  a  long,  black,  military 
cloak  and  a  soft  black  hat.  As  he  swept  off  his  hat, 
and  let  the  cloak  fall  back  from  his  arm,  he  suggested 
a  staff-officer  in  uniform.  A  sword-glance  was 
flashed  in  scathing  contempt  over  all  but  Mrs. 
Mearely  and  the  prince.  These  two  were  exempt 
from  his  anger,  because  he  could  feel  nothing  but 
tenderness  for  Rosamond;  and  the  prince  he  had  not 
yet  perceived.  That  distinguished  personage  had 
caught  sight  of  Frei  on  the  verandah  and  immediately 
hidden  himself  behind  the  door. 

"Rosamond!"  He  called  her  name  feehngly  and 
made  his  way  rapidly  to  her.  He  kissed  her  hand. 
"Fear  no  longer.     /  am  here." 

"Ah,  you  have  heard  of  the  excitement,"  Mrs. 
Witherby  began. 

He  silenced  her  with  a  gesture  so  commanding, 


372      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''     . 

that  she  continued  to  stare  at  his  hand  for  several 
seconds  afterward.  His  eyes  blazed,  his  whole  body 
quivered  with  the  excess  of  his  emotion. 

"Yes!  I  have  heard  it!  First  from  Herr  Ruggle, 
of  the  telegraph,  when  together  we  reach  for  our 
milk  pails  on  the  back  of  the  porch.  Then  from 
Dr.  Wells.  Finally  from  everybody!  I  have  heard 
how  this  beautiful  Rosamond,  of  Roseborough,  has 
been  suspected,  maligned;  her  reputation  slandered, 
ruined — criticized — criticized^' — he  hissed  out  the 
word  with  uncontrollable  fury — "  by  you — and  you — 
and  you,"  snapping  his  fingers  right  and  left.  "Yes, 
criticized!  and  why.?  why.?"  Glaring,  he  paused 
for  emphasis.  "  Because  a  gentleman  calls  upon  her, 
at  his  convenience!  What  is  more  natural?"  scorn- 
fully. "Two — three  o'clock  in  the  morning — these 
are  not  your  hours  for  visiting .?  No  !  I  can  believe 
that!"  with  seething  contempt.  "With  you — 
with  you — it  must  be  just  so.  Bah!  With  me,  if  I 
am  wakeful  and  I  wish  to  visit  some  friend  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  immediately  I  ring  my  bell,  I 
wake  everybody,  I  am  dressed,  I  demand  the  carriage 
or  the  automobile,  or  the  aeroplane,  and  I  go  to  visit 
my  friend.  I  wish  to  visit,  and  I  visit!  What  is 
more  natural  ?  Does  the  clock  rule  the  inclinations 
or  the  reputations.?     Absurdity!" 

While  he  drew  breath,  Rosamond  said  quickly: 
"They  know  now.     It's  all  explained." 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      373 

**  Certainly.  /  have  come  to  make  the  explana- 
tion. For  your  sake  only.  I  detest  criticism.  I  do 
nothing  for  people  who  criticize.  If  I  can  make 
great  trouble  for  them,  I  do  so.  Always.  But  for 
you,  whose  heart  is  torn,  bleeding,  from  their  criti- 
cisms, I  make  the  great  sacrifice.  I  renounce  my 
incognito.     I  take  you  under  my  protection." 

The  word  "incognito"  is  an  unusual  one  to  hear 
bandied  about  in  a  peaceful  village  like  Roseborough, 
and  would  be  sure  to  produce  its  effect  at  any  time; 
but  hardly  such  an  effect  as  was  produced  by  Dr. 
Frei^s  use  of  it  now.  Everyone  stared  at  him,  then 
at  one  another  and  back  at  him;  that  is,  everyone 
but  Mrs.  Mearely,  who  had  long  ago  convinced  her- 
self that  Dr.  Frei  was  some  noted  violin  virtuoso  who 
had  come  to  peaceful  Roseborough  to  recover  his 
health. 

His  manner  changed.  The  feverish  excitement 
of  the  furious  avenger  (on  critics)  faded.  With 
lifted  head — yet  not  assertively  lifted,  but  held  high 
with  an  hereditary  and  inbred  dignity — and  the  quiet 
accents  of  habitual  and  unquestioned  authority,  he 
said: 

"I  am  Adam,  Prince  of  Woodseweedsetisky.'* 
He  pronounced  it  as  if  it  were  written  Vode-s'-vade- 
s'-teesky. 

There  is  a  common  phrase  for  describing  a  blank 
silence  after  a  shock;  "one  could  have  heard  a  pin 


374      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

drop."  In  the  silence  that  filled  Villa  Rose,  one  could 
feel  the  temperature  drop.  In  time,  Rosamond 
found  her  faculties  of  speech. 

"Er — er — it's  very  good  of  you.  Dr.  Frei,  to  at- 
tempt this — er — masquerade  for  my  sake.  But 
my  reputation  has  already  been  saved — by  Prince 
Adam  of — Woodse     ..." 

"  Vode-s'-vade-s'-teesky." 

"Ye — es.  The  real  Prince  Adam  is  here."  She 
looked  about  for  her  prince. 

"Hi found  'im.    'Ere's  'Is  'Ighness — 'idin' up  'ere." 

His  Highness,  the  Vagabond,  perforce  stepped  out 
of  his  concealment  into  Dr.  Frei's  ken.  He  bowed 
to  him  ceremoniously,  respectfully,  yet  with  a  sparkle 
of  mirth  in  his  eye. 

"This  is  Prince  Adam,"  Mrs.  Mearely  said. 

"At  your  service,"  he  said,  to  Frei. 

"Ach!  no!  This  is  too  much!"  Frei  stormed  at 
him.  '*The  fountain!  You  criticized  me  because 
the  water  did  not  arrive  to  spout.  I  put  you  in  the 
prison  and  now  you  come  out  and  say  you  are  me. 
Oh  no!  You  are  not  me.  Who  you  are,  I  forget. 
I  purposely  forget,  because  you  are  of  no  importance 
whatever.  But  you  are  not  me."  He  stopped, 
breathing  heavily  and  glaring. 

"This  needs  clearing  up,"  Mrs.  Witherby  said. 
She  looked  at  Mrs.  Mearely  and  her  vagabond,  and 
said  it  very  positively. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      375 

As  if  in  answer,  the  thickset  figure  of  Teodor  Carl 
Peter  Lassanavatiewicz  stumbled  across  the  porch 
and  into  the  room.  He  burst  into  sobs  at  the  near 
view  of  his  Sovereign.  He  rushed  to  Frei,  fell  on  his 
knees — despite  the  wound  he  groaned  at — and  kissed 
his  hands. 

*'Ach/  Ich  hahe  Sie  gefunden.  It  is  thou.  All 
night  have  I  in  the  wet  grass  and  hard  roads  waited. 
But  I  have  fallen  asleep.''  He  caught  sight  of  the 
vagabond  and  exploded,  in  angry  astonishment, 
^^  Der  Anarchist  !  der  Teufel !'' 

Frei,  deeply  moved,  looked  down  upon  him. 

"Ah — 'is  it  thou,  my  faithful  Teodor?"  Emotion- 
ally, with  wet  eyes,  he  indicated  the  kneeling  figure 
to  the  silent  group  in  Villa  Rose.  "Always  he  is 
searching  the  world  for  me!  Ah — ah — so  faithful! 
Faithful  Teodor."  He  observed  a  white  linen  strip 
about  the  faithful  one's  nether  limb.  "You  are 
wounded  ?  "  he  cried,  in  dismay. 

Indignation  sounded  through  the  kneeling  man's 
sobs. 

"I — I  have  been  abominably — execrably  wounded 
in  the  leg." 

"Ah— ah!     Poor  Teodor." 

"You  will  go  home  with  me?  You  will  at  last 
marry  the  Princess  Olga,  who  adores  you  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  soothingly.  "We  will  go  home. 
We  will  marry  her."     He  sighed.     "She  will  say  she 


376      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!" 

adores  me.  She  has  been  well  brought  up."  He 
turned  his  attention  once  more  to  Roseborough  and 
the  present.  "Farewell,"  he  said — his  expression 
was  grieved  and  disdainful — "I  go — ^without  regrets. 
Here,  where  I  thought  was  my  journey's  end,  I  have 
heard  most  cruel  criticism.  It  is  the  world.  Every- 
where the  same.  I  go  back  to  my  own  country, 
where  I  can  put  the  critics  in  the  prison  !" 

The  vagabond  asked  meekly: 

"If  Your  Highness  will  be  so  kind  as  to  introduce 
me  and  vouch  for  my  respectability — for  Mrs. 
Mearely's  sake     .     .     ." 

Prince  Adam  bent  upon  him  imperious  looks  of 
intense  dislike. 

"For  Mrs.  Mearely,  nothing  is  needed.  You — 
and  you" — pointing  at  the  offenders,  chief  of  whom 
he  rightly  considered  to  be  Mrs.  Witherby — "de- 
stroyed her  reputation.  But  I  have  given  her  a  new 
one.  She  needs  no  more.  Now,  those,  who  ab- 
surdly criticized  her,  are  at  her  feet  in  apologies. 
They  will  humble  themselves  before  her  always." 

"Nay,  Your  Highness,"  replied  the  vagabond, 
who  had  read  the  signs  more  clearly.  In  spite  of 
himself,  the  whimsical  strain  came  uppermost. 
"Here  also,  water  will  not  run  uphill — not  even  to 
oblige  a  prince." 

"I  say,  I  do  not  know  you!"  Prince  Adam  thun- 
dered, "You  are  an  anarchist  and  a  critic.     From 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      377 

you  I  have  received  this  false  tale  of  a  place  where 
*all  hearts  are  tender  and  sincere.'  Roseborough! 
Ah!  bah!  You  are  my  evil  genius.  I  repudiate 
you.     Before  all,  I  say  I  do  not  know  this  man." 

He  took  Rosamond's  hand  and,  with  profound 
reverence,  kissed  it.  "Rosamond,"  he  repeated  her 
name  feelingly,  "I  cannot  take  you  where  I  am  going. 
Besides,  now  I  shall  marry  Princess  Olga,  and  it  is 
even  possible  she  would  not  wish  you  to  be  with  me. 
You  will  remain  forever  in  my  memory — my  one 
true  dream,  the  perfect  melody  I  heard  but  could  not 
keep.     Farewell." 

He  saluted  the  others  distantly.  **  Madame. 
Ladies.  Herr  Howard."  He  marched  out  with 
swift  step,  but  stopped  suddenly  on  the  verandah, 
remembering  the  wounded  Lassanavatiewicz  limping 
behind.  "Come,  my  Teodor.  Come  my  Teodor. 
Ah — ah — so  faithful."  He  put  his  arm  about  his 
Teodor's  shoulder  an  instant,  as  the  latter  Hfted  his 
bandaged  leg  over  the  threshold,  an  act  of  condescen- 
sion which  caused  Lassanavatiewicz  to  weep  de- 
votedly. Prince  Adam  crossed  the  verandah  and 
passed  from  view  without  a  backward  glance. 

Mr.  Marks,  alone  of  those  in  the  living  room  of 
Villa  Rose,  had  comments  to  make  immediately, 
and  his  were  personal.  He  was  divided  between 
pleasure  at  having  actually  hit  Lassanavatiewicz  and 
chagrin  at  having  only  grazed  him. 


378      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

"That's  wot  'appens  w'en  foreigners  goes  hup 
against  Henglish  guns,"  he  said  proudly;  and,  at 
once,  added  disappointedly  "But  Hi  do  wish  my 
aim  was  better.     Hi  do  wish  that.'' 

Thought  in  Roseborough  usually  moved  like 
molasses  below  zero,  even  when  Roseborough  had 
not  been  up  all  night.  It  should  have  been  easy, 
otherwise,  for  Mrs.  Witherby  or  Mrs.  Mearely  to 
identify  the  pseudo  prince  from  some  of  the  phrases 
in  the  real  prince's  tirade  against  him.  One  or 
two  phrases  uttered  by  Prince  Adam,  however,  could 
not  make  Mrs.  Mearely  forget  that  she  had  been  de- 
ceived; nor  could  they  enlighten  Mrs.  Witherby,  who 
found  it  more  enjoyable  to  revive  all  her  old 
suspicions — which  dated,  and  gathered  momentum 
from  the  absence  of  Amanda,  Jemima  and  Blake, 
and  the  simultaneous  appearance  of  the  rose-and- 
silver  gown.  She  recalled  the  sly  jibes  she  had  been 
obliged  to  bear  submissively  rather  than  offend 
Royalty,  and  her  temper  flew  to  the  masthead  like  a 
regatta  display — all  primary  colours,  and  chiefly  red. 
She  hurled  her  fury  first  upon  the  vagabond: 

"Oh,  the  miserable  upstart!  The  thief!  The 
villain!  As  to  you,  Mrs.  Mearely,  let  us  see  if  you'll 
hold  your  head  high  in  Roseborough  after  the  tale 
I'll  tell.  You'll  make  a  fool  of  me,  will  you,  with 
your  'prince*?  Oh,  indeed!  Let  me  tell  you,  you'll 
never  have  a  reputation  again.     I  know  you.     Try- 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      379 

ing  to  escape  with  such  tales.  You  villain!  You 
counterfeiter!  Oh!  When  I  think  how  I've  scraped 
and  kow-towed  to  you!"  She  concluded  with  a 
direct  attack  upon  the  mock  prince,  even  as  she  had 
begun. 

"  7w  thinkin'  'e  looks  like  the  King  of  Hengland  f 
Officer  Marks  was  bellicose  about  that  delusion, 
**'E's  a  himpostor  !'' 

The  vagabond  was  prevented  from  offering  a  third 
interpretation  of  himself  by  Mrs.  Lee's  advent.  She 
came  in,  all  tender  distress,  and  put  her  arms  about 
Rosamond  as  if  to  protect  something  precious  to 
herself. 

"Oh,  my  dear.  You  are  all  right,  unhurt?  Su- 
sannah Potts  stopped  just  now,  and  told  me  of  your 
fright — the  excitement — and,  oh,  such  a  tale!  She 
was  on  her  way  to  do  a  day's  cleaning  at  the  Kilroys, 
and  saw  me  in  my  garden,  and  told  me  that  Maria 
had  sat  up  in  a  bedquilt  all  night  at  the  telephone, 
and  had  rung  your  number  twenty-nine  times! 
When  one  has  no  telephone  one  misses  a  great  deal. 
But  you  should  have  sent  someone  to  wake  me.  It 
was  just  your  sweet  thoughtfulness,  not  to  break  an 
old  woman's  sleep."     She  patted  Rosamond's  cheek. 

The  vagabond  had  watched  her,  from  the  moment 
of  her  appearance,  with  affectionate  eyes.  He 
stepped  forward  now.  Sixteen  years  had  changed 
him — turned   a  long,   slender  boy  into   a  compact 


38o      ''GOOD-MORN I NGy  ROSAMOND!" 

broad-shouldered  man,  written  in  his  face  much  more 
than  the  simple  tales  of  the  First  Primer.  Had  they 
met  on  the  road,  she  might  not  have  known  him. 
It  was  not  his  outward  person  that  she  recognized 
now;  but  she  knew  that  attitude  of  head  held  forward 
and  bent  in  humility;  hands  thrust  deep  into  coat 
pockets,  and  black  eyes,  apparently  downcast,  but 
in  reality  gleaming  through  half-closed  lids,  while  he 
mutely  asked  pardon  for  some  outrageous  prank, 
and  at  the  same  time  flashed  the  impudent  news  that 
he  would  not  undo  it  if  he  could,  no,  not  for  a  wilder- 
ness of  monkeys. 

"Who  was  the  dreadful  man,"  Mrs.  Lee  was  ask- 
ing when  she  caught  sight  of  him.  "Why — ^who — 
who.f*  Jack!  Jack,  my  dear  boy — Oh,  my  dear 
boy."  She  went  to  him  with  open  arms  and  em- 
braced him  and  crooned  over  him. 

"Yes,  Mother  Lee.  Fm  home  again."  He  kissed 
her  cheek.  "  But  you  didn't  tell  me  that  you  don't 
live  here  any  more!  So  it  was  I,  Mother  Lee.  I  was 
the  tramp." 

"Oh  Jack!"  she  laughed  happily,  though  her  eyes 
were  wet.  "And  then  you  told  some  story  and  kept 
it  up.  Just  the  same,  naughty  Jack."  She  held  his 
arm  in  hers  as  she  beamed  delightedly  at  the  others. 
"So  now  you  all  know  one  another,  and  I  needn't 
make  any  introductions.  And  see  how  wonderfully 
it  came  about,  too — ^just  as  I  longed  to  have  it,  Mrs. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      381 

Mearely!  My  Jack  and  Roseborough  met  without 
knowing  that  they  were  Jack  Falcon  and  Rosebor- 
ough, and  so  they  found  out  each  other's  true  selves 
at  once.     How  beautiful! " 

She  was  leaning  to  gaze  into  his  face  with  loving 
look,  and  so  did  not  see  that  everyone,  but  Corinne, 
sought  some  spot  for  view  where  eyes  would  not  be 
encountered.  Constable  Marks,  having  no  cause 
for  moral  sensitiveness,  put  his  battered  straw  hat 
on  and  took  it  off  again  in  punctilious  greeting  to  the 
new  arrival. 

"Hi'm  'appy  to  welcome  you  'ome.  Sir.  Hi'U 
be  goin'  along,  now,  to  tell  Mrs.  Marks  as  'ow  Hi 
was  almost  the  first  to  greet  you.  She  halways  'as 
a  'ankerin'  to  see  me  prominent."  He  drew  out  his 
watch.     "Nigh  on  my  breakfast  time." 

"Good  day,  sergeant"  Falcon  called  after  him, 
good  humouredly.  Constable  Halfred  Marks  grinned 
sheepishly  and  departed. 

Presently  Mabel  gave  words  to  the  thought  in 
everyone's  mind,  but  Mrs.  Lee's  and  Corinne's.  She 
said: 

"And  we've  all  got  to  live  here  knowing  each 
other!'' 

""Won't  that  be  wholesome?"  Falcon  said  cheerily. 

Corinne  could  contain  herself  no  longer. 

"Oh  Goody!  Oh,  to  think  the  prince  is  going  to 
stay   in    Roseborough!     Prince    Falcon!     And,    oh. 


382      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

Mrs.  Lee,  Mabel's  going  to  marry  Mr.  Howard — at 
last!'' 

"Oh,  how  glad  I  am!"  Mrs.  Lee  embraced  Mabel. 
"Two  dear  young  people.  Such  an  unselfish  girl, 
always  labouring  for  dear  aunt  Emma  and  Corinne. 
How  often  I've  prayed,  *May  that  sweet,  unselfish 
girl  get  a  good  husband. ' "  She  shook  hands  with 
Howard. 

"I — I  didn't  know  anybody  ever  noticed  me," 
Mabel  answered,  with  quivering  lip. 

"How  glad  our  dear  Mrs.  Witherby  must  be.  I 
know  what  joy  she  feels.  She  is  always  more  in- 
terested in  others  than  in  her  own  affairs." 

Mrs.  Witherby  hunted  for  her  handkerchief, 
snifHing  with  unexpected  emotion,  and  faltered : 

"Her  father  was  my  favourite  brother — my 
favourite." 

"And  now  you'll  all  meet  at  breakfast  as  dear 
friends,  and  not  strangers.  But  that  is  the  spirit  of 
Roseborough.  Jack,  perhaps  you'll  find  that  all 
your  wandering  has  only  led  you  safely  home. 
^Somewhere,  dear  boy,  even  you  must  find  your  end- 
♦of-journeying.  You  remember  the  words:  'Dear 
lloseborough,  to  every  seeker  of  harmony  thou  art 
his  end-of-journeying;  to  every  wanderer,  his  home'  ?' 

"My  *end-of-journeying'!"he  repeated,  and  looked 
at  Rosamond,  who  had  stolen  away  from  the  room 
to  the  verandah. 


''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!''      383 

The  golden  light  of  the  risen  sun  filled  the  open 
spaces  of  the  garden  and  sought  for  chinks  and  win- 
dow holes  in  the  great  elms,  through  which  to  send  its 
warm  yellow  shafts  into  Villa  Rose.  Falcon  went 
out  to  the  railing,  and  looked  down.  The  sun  was 
splashing  all  the  hillside  with  glory;  and  the  river 
flowed  hke  golden  glass. 

Mrs.  Witherby  was  repeating  something  she  had 
evolved,  at  last,  as  the  perfect  explanation  of  "all 
our  Httle  mistakes  last  night." 

"If  only  it  hadn't  happened  in  the  night!  I'm 
sure  /  would  never  have  thought — I'm  the  last 
person  to.  .  .  .  But  when  things  happen  in  the 
night .'" 

Mrs.  Lee  had  joined  her  boy  on  the  verandah. 
She  pointed  to  the  sunlight  that  now  burst  through 
the  elms  in  a  dozen  places. 

"  But  the  night  is  past,"  she  said  comfortingly. 

Rosamond,  lifting  her  face  to  let  the  midsummer 
morning  sky  shower  its  splendour  on  her,  echoed 
softly : 

"Yes — the  night  is  past." 

Falcon  turned  to  her.  He  heard  the  secret  call 
in  her  low  note,  the  human  undertone  of  the  high 
wind-swung  song  of  the  nests. 

Their  eyes  met.  Their  youth — and  the  joy  and 
the  hope  of  it — leaped  in  them,  and  they  smiled 
wonderingly  at  each  other. 


384      ''GOOD-MORNING,  ROSAMOND!'' 

With  a  buoyant,  compelling  movement  Falcon 
went  to  her,  under  her  golden  leaf-laced  veil  of  sun, 
and  gripped  her  hand  in  the  firm,  warm  clasp  of  a 
comrade  who  has  sought  long  and  will  never  let  go  of 
the  mate  he  has  found. 

"Night  is  past — Good-morning,  Rosamond !" 

They  laughed   for  sheer  gladness. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PSESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


iflffi^'ft-J^ltA  ■ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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i^er 


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REC'D  LD 

MAR  19  1961 


m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


